Grazed Knees
by Seriously Sam
Summary: Waking up in a hospital with amnesia, Dean suddenly finds himself at a loss. With salt found in his pockets and a strange obsession with silver knives, he tries to recall who he was to understand his paranoid delusions of demons and other monsters.
1. The Rabbit Hole

Title - Grazed Knees

Summary - Dean wakes up in a hospital without any recollection of who he is. Instead of an ID in his pocket, there are packets of salt; and the only thing he can remember is yellow eyes.

**"Grazed Knees"  
"Chapter One: The Rabbit Hole"**

Piercing yellow eyes floated in his mind. He couldn't tell if it was a nightmare, a memory, reality, or just a figment of his imagination. They were there, pulsating behind his eyelids until he become conscious that his head felt as though a jackhammer chiseled its way into his brain. The sickening yellow eyes were forgotten, thrown back into the deepest corners of his mind as he dared to open his eyes.

The only thing he could make out was a smooth, white ceiling. Panic rose in him, not being able to understand where he was or how he got there. Breathing heavily, he heard a constant _beep beep beep_ that seemed never-ending. Daringly, he turned his head to the right to see white walls and a door ajar. People were walking back and forth outside the room, wearing scrubs and carrying clipboards. The panic lessened ever so slightly. A hospital. Surely, he was safe in a hospital?

There was doubt in his mind though, his stomach twisting at the very thought of being in a hospital. He had no idea why he hated being there but knew he had to get out as quickly as he could. The panic that left moments before was back in full force. Feeling his heart pounding wildly in his chest, an overwhelming amount of alarm filled him for reasons he couldn't even imagine. He had to get out and had to get out now.

Without another thought, he started to claw at the IV in his arm with a shaky hand. _They'd get him_._ They'd get him_. Granted he had no idea who _they_ were, but he defiantly feared for his life at that moment. The beeps were rushing together now, sounding faster every second he failed to rip the catheter out of his arm.

The rapid fluctuation of his heart rate must have alerted the medical staff since a couple nurses were suddenly at his bedside. They spoke to him, but he couldn't hear their words. Hands reached out, trying to stop him from causing any injury to himself or others. A male nurse pinned him down to the bed as the other nurses started to fasten restraints onto the bed. Sheer terror ripped through his body as hoarse screams escaped through his lips. _They_ were in on it - all of them. _They_ were going to turn him in, hang him out to dry by the skin of his neck. A white coat came at him and shoved a needle just below the elbow, pushing in liquid that immediately made his muscles go lax. With his eyes rolling up, everything became black.

His head was splitting as his eyes fluttered open to stare at the blurry white ceiling. Déjà vu filled him when he heard the consistent _beep beep beep_ing. His throat was dry and itchy. Blinking several times, he realized that he couldn't move his arms. Gazing downward, he saw the restraints slipped around his wrists. Flashes of the nurses rushing into his room, the feeling of his tightened stomach, and the apprehension he felt came crashing into him. When the wave of helplessness washed over him, he felt and heard his heart rate speed up.

Twisting his wrists, he tried to wiggle his hands free. He wanted to leave. He had to leave. Breathing heavily, he tried to calm himself down. There was no reason for his paranoia. How would anyone or anything get him in a secured hospital? _Anything_? His mind raced. Why would he think _that_? Certainly, the boogeyman wouldn't get him… but what if there was a boogeyman? Mentally slapping himself, he tried to focus on the restraints and not allow his mind to wander off to the worst-case scenario what-ifs.

He saw a flash of a man walking by his room, and his stomach instantly went into knots. He stopped fiddling with the straps around his wrists and went completely still. Holding his breath, he watched as the doctor peered into the room. The doctor was a middle-aged man with peppery hair - the guy's bushy eyebrows raised up high into his hairline when he saw the patient was awake. Stepping inside, he made a beeline to the chart deposited at the end of the bed.

"You seem relatively calm today," doc commented as he flipped through the pages. "Can you tell me your name?"

He opened his mouth to respond but the words caught in his throat. His brow furrowed, a frown crossing his face. It was such an easy question, one that anyone should be able to tattle off their tongue without a second thought. Panic filled him again when he realized that he didn't know what the hell his name was. Shaking his head, he tried to recall how old he was, what the date was, what state he was in. He tried to think if he had a brother or a sister… if his parents were still alive. Closing his eyes tightly, he attempted to figure out if he had a wife or any kids. There was nothing. The last thing he could remember was waking up in the hospital room and freaking out.

"Do you remember anything at all?" the doc asked with sympathy dripping thickly off his words.

There was nothing except a large empty hole in his mind. He could feel the tears prickling his eyes, but he forced them to stay at bay. Somehow he knew he was a guy that didn't cry under any circumstance. No, that wasn't right. He'd cried before but tried to never allow people to see him cry. He didn't understand the thought processes that were whirling through his mind. First, there was the unexplained paranoia. Now, there was the fact that he knew something about his personality when he had no clue what his name was.

"It's okay. You just have a bout of amnesia." Doc jotted some notes onto the chart. "My name is Doctor Hudson. I'm going to order some tests for you: an MRI, a CT, an EEG, and a PET. Are you okay with that?"

He couldn't say that he wasn't, because he knew he didn't have choice in the matter. Despite the fact that the twisting didn't seem to ease at all but only tighten so much that it was harder to breathe, he knew he had to stop fighting. They couldn't help him, find out how long the amnesia would last, unless he met the doctors at least halfway. He also knew he should say something to acknowledge the fact that he wouldn't go Norman Bates on the staff again but he didn't have the heart to open his mouth. Bad idea was written all over the situation for some odd reason that was held hostage within his mind.

"Sure," he finally replied dully, "and I'll even be on my best behavior."

Keeping true to his word through the tests, the restraints were taken off his bed. He sat up, trying to break the brick wall that built itself around his memories. The clothes he wore when he was first brought in were presented to him: faded jeans, a black t-shirt, a green button down shirt, a leather jacket, some biker boots, a weird looking amulet, and a silver ring. There was no wallet or any form of identification. There were, however, three packets of salt in the jeans pocket.

He looped the amulet around his neck. Some of his anxiety seemed to lessen. He slipped the ring on his finger and kept the salt just in case. Somehow, the packets of salt brought him a strange sense of comfort. The nurse who was with him in the room at the time gave him a queer look when he asked to hold onto the salt but said nothing. He was grateful, because he knew that he couldn't explain the peculiar obsession to have the salt close to him at all times.

He tried sleeping that night and hoped that his memory would be back the next morning. Sourly disappointed when he woke only to find the black haze was still hovering over his mind. He rubbed the ring with his thumb, his eyes closed as though the memory of how he got it would manifest itself if he rubbed it long enough. When that didn't work, he went on to the amulet that rested on his chest.

Somehow, he knew it was a Mesopotamian protection amulet. The charm was the Bull-man who fought off evil and chaos. It frustrated him to no end that he could remember what the thing was and what it was used for but couldn't for the life of him figure out his name. Sighing, he ran a weary hand through his short hair as another thought crashed into him. He had no idea what he looked like. That unsettling notion ate away at him for a good hour before a nurse came in to check on him. He asked for a mirror, and she pulled a small compact out of her pocket. She definitely gave him the mother of all pity looks.

Another two hours passed before anyone else came in. A group of young interns flocked around his bed with a resident. A petite female with blonde hair twisted on top of her head started prattling off his sob story about how he couldn't remember anything and how his tests came back clean. There was no evidence that he had any physical trauma to the head, no drugs or alcohol in his system, no traces of any diseases or infections as of yet, no reduced blood flow to his brain. The only thing it could be was from emotional trauma but that seemed unlucky because little Blondie stated in most cases only certain events were forgotten and not whole lives when dealing with an emotional aspect.

When the interns turned to leave, he flagged down the resident that was with them. She quickly gave instructions, directing them on what medical cases they were to be on, before she turned her full attention to him. Giving a soft smile as though to tell him he could speak, she leaned in ever so slightly to him.

"I… I remember what this is," he told her as he fingered the amulet. "I don't remember who gave it to me or when but I know what it is. Is that a good sign?"

He watched as the soft smile quickly became a frown. The spark of hope he felt was stampeded by a bunch of raging bulls. The amulet slipped from his fingers as he tried to keep the disappointment off his face. He couldn't show weakness to her. He was strong, not weak. How is it that he could remember abstract things about his personality or about the necklace but be given no hope that the amnesia is slowly deteriorating?

"You have what is called retrograde amnesia," she started. "That means that you can't recall anything before you woke up in the hospital. It also seems, however, that you have what is called source amnesia. With that, you can recall certain information, but you don't know where or how you got it like in the case with your necklace. You know what it is and what it represents, but you can't remember how you got that information."

Sarcastic, bitter comments filled his mind, but he refrained from using any of them. Tightening his jaw, he simply jerked his head to show that he understood what she said. She patted his shoulder and told him to _give it time_ before she left the room. Give it time. She wasn't the one in the situation. He thought about how he could get out of the hospital because his insecurities about the place kept creeping up. The doctors didn't know what to tell him, how to help him, so why should he stay? There was no use.

That night, he flipped through prime time television. Convinced that if the doctors don't have any suggestions by tomorrow, he's going to haul ass out of the hospital before it was too late. The morbid thoughts kept filtering through his mind. _Too late_. His mind made it sound like someone was going to bust into the place to kill him or something outlandish like that. The more he thought about it, the more jumpy he became. Turning off the television, he decided just to call it a night. Glancing at the bedside table, he made sure that the salt packets were still there before settling down into the bed. Things always looked better in the morning, didn't they?

The interns made their rounds, restating everything that was said the day before. He watched them. Their enthusiasm of the previous day was gone - guess he was old news. He thought about pulling the resident aside again, the one who treated him like he was an abused puppy, but thought better of it. He couldn't go demanding answers and quick fixes when he didn't even know the name of the hospital he was staying out or what town he was in. He'd need to ask those questions since he hadn't asked any questions that didn't relate to amnesia since he arrived. Hell, he didn't even know how he got to the hospital in the first place. Someone must have brought him in.

He sat by himself for nearly three hours, being left to his own devices which were few. Forcing his mind to remember, he thought of piercing yellow eyes that caused his heart to instantly beat faster and for him to consciously reach for the salt. Twirling the packets between his fingers, his heart sank when he remembered that salt didn't have any effects on demons with yellow eyes. The words flooded into his mind before he could stop them. Tossing the packets aside, he started going through his options on why he was thinking the things he was. Perhaps, he was a mental patient who escaped after staying there his whole life. That would be one huge emotional trauma that one would want to forget, right? He contemplated on whether or not to tell a doctor the awful things that ran through his mind like a hampster in his wheel.

A nurse walked into the room, a small brunette. He was relieved because he didn't think he could take another minute alone with his all-consuming thoughts of dread and doom. So he watched the nurse go about her business and couldn't help but think he'd met her someplace before. He got his hopes up that she knows him for only a brief couple seconds before he somehow realizes that he has never gotten a break in his whole life. The way she smiles at him though, the way his heart gets a funny beating when he looks at her, he knows that he knows her from somewhere.

"I'm the guy with amnesia," he introduced himself because it was better than being called 'The Guy Who Flipped Out the First Day' or 'The Guy with the Weird Necklace' or 'The Hott Mute Guy' or simply 'John Doe Number Two' because apparently there was an unconscious guy several rooms down from him who was just as pathetic as he was.

"I know," she responded in a familiar voice as her smile grows wider.

Apparently she hadn't heard the tales of him yet. She obviously didn't hear about his freak out the first time he woke up or the fact that he was known to keep his mouth shut and not say anything. The other nurses didn't gossip to her yet about how he just rubs his ring and necklace all day trying to jog a memory or the fact that he just sits around in bed moping while watching crap TV because the hospital didn't get the channels that showed the good stuff like _Matlock_, _Dragnet_, and _MacGyver_.

"Sucks to be me, huh?" He paused for a few seconds. "Where are we exactly?"

"Lawrence Memorial in Lawrence, Kansas."

Just at the name of the city, he wanted to leave more than ever. It wasn't because he was afraid something or someone was going to get him in the hospital anymore. Now he couldn't help but think that he vowed he'd never set foot in the town again. Flashes of fire filled his mind. In the blazes, he could see the yellow eyes mocking him and an outline of a baby. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than the salt packets to be enough to save him since he didn't have a gun on him. Though, deep down inside, he knew he needed a specific gun with special bullets. He also knew that all the bullets had all been used so it was fruitless.

"What's the date?" he tried to keep his voice even and casual.

"August 17, 2007," she answered as she sat down on the corner of his bed. "Anything else?"

He knew he wasn't one for asking questions. Actually, he could picture himself being the type of guy who'd rather drive around aimlessly instead of stopping and asking for directions. He knew that he didn't ask questions but he always tried his best to answer them. He could hear a childish voice in his head asking him questions that he couldn't comprehend. The kid's voice wouldn't stop asking questions, so he tried to push the endless inquiries into the back of his black hole of a mind.

"Do you know me?"

"I know that you're the guy with amnesia," she said lightheartedly as though not to put too much of a damper on him.

"You seem familiar," he told her with a slight shrug, "like I know you. Maybe I'm just making up memories now though. Is that possible?"

"Yeah, I think it's called false memory syndrome or something similar to that."

"Great. Not only am I the freak who can't remember his own name, I'm now the psychotic guy who's making up his own memories," he said jokingly. "I'm such a catch, aren't I?"

"You just need something to jog your memory."

He was about to say that maybe _she_ could jog his memory and quirk his eyebrows up and down but thought better of it. He hadn't really talked to anyone since he arrived in the sterile hellhole, and he rather liked talking to her. She hadn't told him, '_just give it time_' like the rest so he knew there was hope for her yet. He didn't want to scare her away by insinuating he wanted to have hardcore sex with her. Though, the action itself seemed very familiar to him.

"What's your name?"

"Carmen. Carmen Porter."

The name hit a chord in his mind and vibrated wildly. He knew that name, knew the face that went with it. There was no way in hell that he didn't know her from his pre-amnesia life. He squinted his eyes at her, trying to jog his memory on how he knows her. The black storm in his head didn't clear at all though, not even a little bit. There was still nothing but something in the darkness seemed to flicker ever so slightly for a split second.

"You're sure we don't know each other?" he questioned her.

He wanted her to cock her head to the side and burst out with an 'Oh! We went to high school together! I can't believe I forgot a handsome devil like you!' but knew that he didn't know her from school. It was another thing that he just knew but didn't know how he knew it. Those moments were the most irritating moments, and it had only been a few days since he was admitted.

"When I was in nursing school," she started to say looking a little more than sheepishly, "I did these modeling gigs to pay for my education. It started out as ads for the El Sol beer company and then became some lingerie and bathing suit spreads. You probably saw me in some magazine. I'm sorry."

The explanation made sense and the sorrowful expression gracing her features made him feel a little guilty for pushing the matter. There was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he knew her not from a magazine but from somewhere else. Maybe he was just a pervert who fantasized about her in his dreams. Quickly, he shoved that thought away. It didn't sound right to him. He's sure he's fantasized before but not with her. She was different somehow.

"Must be," he commented.

"That's good though, that you remember seeing me before. It's a great sign."

"I don't know. I remember a lot of things, insignificant things, but I can't remember my name or if I have any family. How screwed up is that?"

"Well, at least you have things from your past that can help you remember."

She gestured to the amulet and the ring. Sure, he had them - he even understood the amulet. They were only things though and didn't tell him who he was. He knew that they meant a lot to him, knew that he rarely took them off in his life once upon a time, but he didn't know _why_. He didn't know the answers to the burning questions, the important ones. Instead, he knew useless information and knew the fact that he was quite possibly certifiable. That didn't really help him in the least.

"Yeah," he agreed because he didn't feel like telling her his sob story. Even if he did feel like talking, getting a chick-flick moment on, he oddly knew that he'd rather slit his own throat before succumbing to talk about his emotions.

"Anything else before I go finish my rounds?"

"Yeah, do you know how I became imprisoned in lovely Lawrence Memorial?"

"You were actually found unconscious in an abandoned warehouse. A couple of teenagers were snooping around and found you. They ran down the street, used a pay phone to call 911, and then bolted. At least, the police think they were teenagers because who else would wander around dangerous warehouses like that?"

"Me apparently," he replied.

He smirked softly, knowing that he would do something like that. He didn't exactly know _why_ but he just knew that it sounded like something he would do. Growling mentally in frustration, he locked that bit of information and the small corner of his brain marked post-amnesia madness. Just once, when he realized something about himself or had one of his crazy thoughts, he'd like the answer to the why.

"Apparently."

"So, one last question and I'll let you go flirt with the other pathetic patients." He flashed her a smile. "Is this a one time thing because you feel sorry for me or will you come visit me again?"

"I'll come again. It is part of my job, you know."

"Are you going to visit because it's your job or because you find yourself drawn to me?"

"I thought you already asked your last question."

"I have amnesia, I'm sorry. I don't remember saying that," he joked as she laughed.

"A little of both."

"Last question, I promise this time. You going to bring me some entertainment, because this hospital has crap stations."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, Candyland, Monopoly, strip poker…"

"I'll see what I can do," she replied with a chuckle as she patted his leg before standing up.

He watched her leave the room, the knots and twists in his chest coming undone ever so slightly. Maybe he could deal with staying in the hospital a couple more days. If anything evil came, he had salt with him. Most evil things were repealed by salt after all. Even if the looming yellow eyes couldn't be scared away by salt, he could always run. He was a fast runner - he knew that somehow.

All the thoughts about evil and yellow eyes made him feel queasy. He felt normal talking to Carmen, felt like he could overcome with whole no memory thing. Now that he was alone, he couldn't stop thinking about doom and gloom. He knew he must be the world's worst pessimist if he couldn't stop thinking about how to repeal demons and other baddies. The real question was: how the hell did he know so much about the crap? Maybe everything he was thinking was all false memories, because he was that desperate to remember who he was. He shook his head. That didn't sound like him. Smacking his head into the backboard, he wandered why that didn't sound like him. Why was there always that little voice in his head that told him the most random information about himself or the most useless facts about salt and demons? Where the hell was his family when he needed them?

* * *

First off, I'm not a doctor but did a lot of research on amnesia. If I have inaccuracies, then please let me know so I can fix it. Anyways, let me know if I should continue with this. I've been holding off posting it for a couple weeks now since I have another chaptered story in the works but that's nearly finished so I do need a project to fill its place. If you leave a review and you're logged in, I will respond to it. So reviews are welcomed (as is constructive criticism). 


	2. The Slippery Slope

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Two: The Slippery Slope"**

He had some insane thought that in his old life he was a professional poker player who was greatly missed. He wanted it to be that at least, it seemed to fit. Carmen brought a pretty redheaded nurse named Riley and an intern named Derek into his room during their lunchtime to keep him entertained with several friendly games of poker. He was kicking all ass. Already, his pile of winnings included a pudding cup, twenty cotton balls, two dollars in change, five tongue depressors, and a couple packets of salt. He'd yet to lose. The winning streak would have continued, he was positive, if the doctor assigned to his case hadn't walked in shooing away his entertainment.

The next day, Carmen didn't come to visit him until after her shift. She was dressed casually in jeans and a green t-shirt. With her was a bag of fast food goodness and two cups of smoking coffee. If he didn't love her in his once upon a time life, then he sure as hell did now. The woman knew the way to his heart: coffee and greasy food.

"You need a name," she told him as they ate their cheeseburger dinner.

"I guess so," he replied with a shrug. "What about MacGyver."

"You don't know how long you'll have this name so maybe you should put a little thought into it."

"You know, it's so weird. I know that I like old shows like _MacGyver_ and _Matlock_, but I can't for the life of me remember what they're about. I guess it's that source amnesia I was told about."

"So definitely not MacGyver or Matlock. Come on, what name strikes you?"

He thought about his name a lot, trying to break down the barriers around his memory to figure it out. When he watched the television, he played close attention to all of the names as though one would spark his mind. Although none of the names stood out, he knew that he didn't want to pick the wrong name for himself for the sake of his family whom was trying to find him.

"Who do I look like?" he questioned as a smirk found its way onto his face.

"Hmm…"

She made a huge deal of thinking as she squished a fry between her fingers. He couldn't help but smile, a broad smile that felt genuine. Her gazed started at his hair, went down to study his face, before sliding down over his torso and arms, even looking to see how he held his food, and then proceeded to look down at what was hidden underneath the covers. Finally, her eyes situated itself on his face again.

"Are you done violating me with your eyes?" he asked lightly.

"For now," she replied with a wide smile gracing her features.

Reaching over the side of the bed, Carmen hauled up her bag from the floor. She ruffled through it until she pulled out a paperback book and tossed it over to him. He looked down at the book in his lap and frowned slightly. "What to Name Your Baby Boy" shone up at him in cheery light blue lettering. Underneath the title was a picture of a tiny baby. Setting aside the fries he was munching on, he started flipping through the pages with little interest.

"I thought you could look through the names… see if one jogs your memory. Maybe you'll find yourself in there."

"Yeah, thanks," he said shortly before tossing the book next to the salt packets.

He felt slightly guilty at the look on Carmen's face when he threw the book aside. Knowing she meant well, he just couldn't bring himself to flip randomly through a baby names book and pick out a name that isn't his. What if he picked the wrong one and his family couldn't find him then?

"Look, can't I just be Amnesia Guy for the rest of my life? It seems fitting. It has a nice ring to it - I like it."

"You know, I don't understand why you won't let the authorities put your picture in newspapers and on TV. It would be easier for your family to find you that way."

After their little poker game the day before, the police paid him a little visit. For some reason, he was antsy and anxious to have them leave. Why would they even want to talk to him? He had amnesia and wasn't going to magically remember what happened just because _they_ asked him. They suggested running his face in newspapers and on television to try to find his family or friends. He declined a little too graciously which only made it sound sarcastic and ungrateful. Apparently, that's how he got his new nickname: 'The Crazy Amnesia Guy'.

He may not know his name or anything of importance about himself, but he knew that he shouldn't go plastering his picture about for everyone to see. Oddly enough, he started coming up with the wildest ideas such as he was a professional criminal, a Clyde without a Bonnie, a conman. Although, he tried not to think of those promising career paths as his own. He rather liked the idea that he used to be a spy, a secret government agent, or something equally as awesome. Back in his mind, he knew that there was no way he was involved in law enforcement but rather on the running end. He really had a screwed up life if that was true.

"Carmen, I just don't feel like there's family here in Kansas," he said slowly.

"I'm not going to argue with you, MacGyver," she told him with a smile creeping up on her face.

"Oh, you're going to call me MacGyver until I pick a name from your book now. How stubborn of you."

"Well, you seem oddly interested in him. Perhaps you are a secret agent who uses MacGyverisms."

"That sounds vaguely dirty," he replied with a wink and a smirk. "Too bad I can't remember any of these MacGyverisms. I'm sure he was the master."

Reaching over, dinner forgotten in front of him, he started flipped through the pages of the book. None of the names popped out at him. Oddly enough, he felt like he went by many names which really didn't help his paranoid mind thinking he was some sort of criminal who used salt as some sort of weapon. Maybe his fascination with salt to repeal demons and monsters was one big metaphor in his mind. Perhaps the salt meant gun and the demons meant the police. His mind raged that he was starting to sound like Geek Boy.

_Geek Boy_. Furrowing his brows, he tried to remember who Geek Boy was since he was positive it wasn't him. There was a definitely tightening of his heart at the thought of the kid but didn't know where it came from. It was an affectionate name, he knew that much. It was used in a teasing manner but a good-natured kind of teasing. He could imagine a scowl on a distorted face and hear as clear as day, _'Jeeerk'. _Immediately, he wanted to call the haze of a face _'bitch'_. It didn't even seem over-the-top or mean but rather something he that had said his whole life. Calling this Geek Boy _'bitch' _was his way of saying _'I love you, Geek Boy'_. He really wished he could remember Geek Boy by his proper name or affiliation to him at the very least. Something about the way he felt about the kid, he knew he must be a brother or cousin or nephew.

"You okay?" Carmen snapped him out of his reverie.

"Yeah, just… remembering abstract things that don't make any sense whatsoever."

Flipping through the name book, he stopped every few pages and did a once glance over the names. He didn't care about getting a name. He was perfectly happy being called Amnesia Guy. Names were just names. He didn't need one to feel like a person. Thinking he should just randomly pick one seemed like the best idea. It would get Carmen off his back anyways. Somehow, he didn't think anyone would find him. Maybe Geek Boy was off looking for him but something told him the last place Geek would look was Kansas. It was odd, the realizations he came up with and immediately went with them. Anything his mind threw at him randomly, he took as the truth and went with the flow of it. He hated that.

"You could go with a common family name," she suggested. "It seems like in every family there's someone named John or some form of William."

John. The name tasted bitter in his mouth, his stomach churning in longing. It wasn't his name but the name of someone he loved deeply. His throat closed, swelling in emotions that he didn't understand. If John was here, he could fix it. John could fix anything. He felt tears burn his eyes. Quickly, he wiped a hand over his eyes in an attempt to suffocate the tears from falling freely down his face.

_"Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back! Now, Dean, go!"_

The words repeated into his mind, pounding its way through the black hole. He could recall the flames that surrounded a silhouette of a man, a baby being dropped into his arms. He could hear the silhouette, _John_, commanding him to save his brother before the flames could consume them. If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the baby's weight in his arms. He could hear the crying wail, feel the blaze licking his face. Raising a hand to cover his mouth, he tried to push farther into the memory. He was so close he could taste it. If only the blotches around the man in front of him would disperse… but it was gone. The light at the end of the tunnel slammed shut.

"I think my name is Dean," he said in a cracking voice.

"Did you remember something?"

Carmen was excited but hesitant at the same time. He knew she was watching him break down at the now far away memory. Despite the grief it caused, he wanted nothing more than to draw it closer. He wanted to taste the fire again, to farther knock down the barriers that seemed to be crumbling. His mind was opening, only to be slammed shut by some unknown force. It was as though something was trying to keep his memory away to distract him. Maybe if he just talked about it, heard the story again, the light could get through the fog.

"I think my dad was John," he whispered. "I think there was a fire at our house when I was younger."

"This is good," she encouraged him to continue.

"I think I have a baby brother who I carried out of the burning house."

"What else?"

"Nothing else. My dad… he gave me the baby and told me to get out of the house as fast as I could and not look back."

_"Now, Dean, go!"_

His charts were changed form John Doe Number Two to simply Dean. He tried to persuade the nurse to put down Dean MacGyver but his doctor discouraged it. That night _Dean_ - how weird it felt to be a Dean and not a he - went to bed hoping of dreaming of fire, John, and a baby. The only thing he did dream of was yellow eyes and blazes of fire. There was no John, no Geek Boy, no baby brother.

The next day consisted of doctors telling him about his impending release from the hellhole. It was a good sign that he remembered his name and it was only a slippery slope from there on out - or so the doctor said. Apparently, they ran extensive tests on his blood work in search for some disease that brought on his amnesia. There was nothing. All the scans showed nothing. There was no explanation as to why Dean had amnesia expect some sort of emotional trauma.

"A social worker is going to set you up in a development and help you get a job," the doctor told him. "We're going to ask you to see a therapist once a week to help you regain your memories. The fact that you remembered your name and the name of your father suggests that you are on the road to recovery."

That night, after her shift, Carmen came bearing gifts. She had a platter of cookies and more coffee. She looked slightly nervous that night, her lip wedged in-between her teeth as she sat at the edge of his hospital bed. Dean knew she wanted to say something to him but was debating whether or not it was appropriate. Nudging her leg with his foot, he gave her the best killer smile he could muster up.

"What's on your mind?" he inquired.

"Those developments… they're really bad."

"Something tells me I'm probably used to bad. I'm definitely not the Ritz kind of guy," he meant it as a joke but felt a lingering truth in the words.

"I'd feel a lot better if you…" the words trailed off before she could supply _stay at my place_.

"I'm a big boy, Carmen. Don't worry. It's only until I make my first million."

"Dean," she paused with a weird look crossing her face, "it's so weird to call you Dean."

"It's weird being called it," he answered.

Actually, it was only weird when she called him Dean. The way his name rolled off her tongue jerked some strings in his heart - an all too familiar chord. He could imagine her calling him Dean for what seemed like forever. For some odd reason, he could picture himself waking up next to her with some cheesy 1950's science fiction moving playing in the background. He could picture them eating dinner together, teasing each other on the couch, talking openly with her about anything. It was like she was a figment of his imagination - some sort of dream girl that he never thought could possibly exist.

"I have a small little two bedroom house. You should stay with me. You can have the guest bedroom all to yourself."

"I don't want to impose on you."

He was going to say, 'I don't need your charity' but decided against it. For some reason, he didn't want to lose her. Over the past few days he's known her, he felt an immediate connection to her that he couldn't explain no matter how hard he tried. He was positive she was the missing link in his broken up chain link fence of a brain. If he just spent more time with her, he could remember his old life.

"Dean," the name lingered on her lips, "am I imagining this?"

"No," he whispered.

"I like you. I like you a lot, and I just met you. I'm not the sort of impulsive girl who latches onto any cute guy that passes either. So this is scary for me, having these feelings for you. Just come live with me. Please, it would make me feel so much better."

Two days later, on Saturday morning, Dean was released from the hospital wearing the clothes they found him in, the packets of salt in his pocket, and a new lease on life. He hauled himself into Carmen's red '76 Buick Electra. Leaning back in the leather seats, he wanted nothing more than to get behind the wheel and drive down endless country roads. Except, a Buick was crap. She needed something sturdier, with more personality. Something like an Impala.

She wasn't lying when she said she owned a small house. Pulling the car into the driveway, he noted that the grass was too long and the bushes needed trimming. He kept those comments to himself. The inside was nicer, homely. There was a tiny entranceway with a coat rack and a table with small knick-knacks where she set her keys. The living room had an array of mix-matched furniture against the cream walls. There was a large suede couch across from the plasma television. An orange fuzzy chair and a green sofa were present as well. In the corner, there was a tall bookcase crammed with all different sizes of books. On the far wall, there was a fireplace which held an array of photographs. The coffee table was littered in magazines and mail.

"It's a mess, I know," Carmen voiced his thoughts as she hung her coat up. "I just didn't have the heart to decorate it since I'm all by my lonesome."

"I'll decorate with you," he regretted the words that came out of his mouth. "I'll even mow your lawn. I think I know how to mow a lawn at least."

She laughed, an airy laugh at the implication that he'd have trouble mowing a lawn. It was an action that everyone did, a once a week at least action. Except, to Dean, the prospect of mowing a lawn seemed far too foreign. She drew him out of his musings when she grabbed his arm to take him upstairs to the guest room. Though he didn't know why she was showing him the room. He rather thought that after the first night or two, he would find a way to stay a permanent resident in her bedroom.

The guest room was more subdued than the living room. There was a bed with light green linens, two night tables with a lamp on one and an alarm clock on the other. There was also a dresser, a full-length mirror, a desk, and an empty closet. The walls were a calm beige. Dean hated it but kept his tongue. It was too ordinary for his tastes. He was certain he was used to eccentric rooms with too much personality.

The rest of the house held charm in a mix-matched sort of way. The kitchen table was a plain white but the four chairs around it were each a different, vibrant color. She owned more cookie jars, mixing bowls, pots and pans, and jars than he thought was possible. The kitchen was colorful and cheery. He quite liked it.

"So, you think about a job you might want?" she asked him when the tour concluded in the kitchen.

"I don't know what I'm good at."

"Well, what did the social worker say?"

"She asked me what I was good at. I said I didn't know. She said that I should take the weekend, figure it out, and see her Monday."

"Then I guess you and me have all weekend to find out what you're good at," she said in an encouraging tone.

"I guess so."

That afternoon, he pulled out the lawn mower from Carmen's garage turned cluttered mess of discarded crap. She sat on the porch, a beer in hand, and watched Dean struggle to start the hunk of junk. Once it started, the engine spluttered and puttered as he pushed it forward. He could see why she never bothered cutting the grass. The mower was shot to hell. Almost immediately, he could tell that the engine was faulty by the loud clanks the piece of crap was making. Not even a minute into mowing did he shut the thing off and went in search for a toolbox that was buried somewhere under the junk in the nonfunctional garage.

Taking apart the engine, he fiddled with it as he took note of parts that he would need to restore the pathetic mower. Carmen sat down in the grass next to him, holding out a beer for him. He gulped down a fourth of it before turning his attention back to the task at hand. It would be easier and cheaper just to get a new one rather than repair the one at hand.

"Can you fix it?" she asked before he could suggest going out to buy a new one.

"Yeah, it needs parts though."

"This is good. On Monday, you can tell the social worker that you can fix lawn mowers," her words came out sarcastic and playful.

"I could be a mechanic," he said suddenly, "or a fireman."

"Those are two utterly different career paths."

"At least I'm keeping my options open," he joked.

The two went shopping, and he was convinced that it was the first time he ever enjoyed shopping. Though, he didn't know for sure, but there was just something about Carmen that made everything seem more bearable. They ended up buying a brand new lawn mower, because she saw a bright yellow one that she couldn't pass up. Even after his many protests, she dragged him into a clothing store and demanded he pick out several outfits saying that he can pay her back later.

That night, the two sat at the kitchen table contemplating dinner arrangements. Carmen admitted that she was baker, not a cook. Dean volunteered to cook a meal, semi-confident that he could cook. She let out an impressed noise before she leaned back in her chair to watch him and to answer his questions on where certain things were around the kitchen. He made sure he knew where she kept her salt as well because the five packets in his jean pocket wouldn't be enough to save him in a time of need. The morbid thoughts made his mood deflate slightly. His nickname at the hospital really should have been 'The Guy Who Sees Doom and Gloom Everywhere'.

A good fifteen minutes later, Dean stirred the smoking pot of noodles as Carmen set the table for the two of them. Pouring the noodles onto her plate, a childish voice filled his head. _'I'm sick of Scabetti O's.'_ A distorted little boy's face flooded in front of him. He could only barely make out the dimples in the boy's cheeks. _'I want Lucky Charms.'_ The child continued to say. He stopped pouring the noodles onto the plate. He went completely rigid, forcing his mind to grasp the voice and hold onto it for dear life. He knew he couldn't let it get away like the memory of his father.

"Dean, you okay?"

Carmen came up behind him, quickly setting down the forks on the table. She stepped behind him and started to massage his shoulders. He could feel his muscles slowly start to unravel under her fingers as she seemed to know just the right spots. He swallowed hard, his mind wandering to the little boy's voice. His brother. Geek Boy. His heart ached, wanting nothing more than to find the kid, but he had no idea where to even start looking.

"Just a memory," he tried to keep his voice even as he spoke. "Let's eat, shall we?"

Stepping away from underneath her hands, he took a seat in the bright blue chair. She looked at him oddly before taking her own spot in the vivid yellow chair across the table. He couldn't taste the food as he ate it. The noodles slithered down his throat as he concentrated on the little boy. He just needed a name. Give him a last name, and he'd be happy. Hell, even a first name for Geek Boy would be enough. He could work with that. Do some sort of search for brothers named Dean and Geek. He was so close; he could taste the victory. It wouldn't come, the memory slipped away once again. The little boy's identity was locked away within the depths of his mind like all the rest.

* * *

I was pleasantly surprised to see how many people added the story to their alerts and/or favorites. I hope I responded to each of the logged in reviews. I wish I could have done the same for the anonymous. So thank you to everyone who reviewed and added the story to a list. I hope you enjoyed the newest chapter. Reviews are very welcomed and are very much needed to keep me motivated. 


	3. The Centipede's Dilemma

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Three: The Centipede's Dilemma"**

Sometimes he felt like he had a nice black cloud following him wherever he went. It was bad enough that his paranoid delusions ate away at him during the day but now they started creeping up in his dreams. He'd wake up covered in sweat, breathing heavily, reaching for the salt packets in front of his alarm clock. The clock flashed 3:23 in red lights. Blinking the beads of sweat out of his eyes, he made his way downstairs to get the big container of salt from the kitchen. He involuntarily grabbed two salt packets on his way out of bed.

The yellow eyes visited him again, just floating around as though trying to agitate him. Sighing heavily, he avoided the third step from the top of the stairs because it squeaked. He didn't want to know why he noticed such a thing, but he had. He always noticed minor things like squeaky floorboards, where the exits were, if there were police around. His new favorite theory of his life pre-amnesia was that he was a notorious cat burglar.

It was Monday afternoon when he came to that epiphany. After his meeting with his social worker, who set him up a job at a local garage, Carmen dropped him off at the house before going back to work. He was left to his own devices which consisted of laying salt lines on the windowsills and the doors that led outside. It seemed eerily routine to him. In all actuality, he didn't even notice what he was doing until the whole first floor was completed. Needing to get some fresh air, he accidentally locked himself out of the house. Rummaging through his pockets, he felt around for the paperclip he stole from the social worker when she phoned the garage to talk about him. He placed it in his pocket as though he merely thought that the salt packets were lonely or something. Without thinking much about it, he straightened the paperclip and picked the lock on the backdoor easily. Quickly, he swept up the salt and placed it back into the container.

It was now the early hours of Wednesday morning. He knew he shouldn't be up to get the salt considering he had to be at the garage at eight in the morning for his first day of work. Except, he was already in the kitchen with the salt gripped tightly in his left hand. Making a beeline to the old china cabinet tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, he delved through the bottom drawer filled with utensils made of solid silver that was still in its packaging. Opening the pack of knives, he took it out feeling the weight in his chest easing up ever so slightly. He was safe now.

Going back to his room, he laid salt lines along the window and the door. Lying down in bed, with the silver butter knife under his pillow, he thought of an excuse he could give Carmen if she asked why there was salt all over the place. Part of him considered staying home from work and taking up the floorboards in front of the doors and windows to place the salt underneath them, but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind. It was just too crazy to even consider. Why would salt be his ultimate defender?

It was five minutes to eight. Dean sat in the passenger seat of the Buick staring at the garage. He knew he had to get out and work but a part of him told himself he had more important things to do than fix cars. Carmen laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it tightly. Turning to look at her, he gave her a soft smile before hauling his body out of the car. He raised his hand quickly in goodbye before walking off towards his new boss, Randy. He was given the easy jobs to fix because Randy probably wasn't sure he was actually any good at fixing cars. Annoyed, he did the work he was given without complaint. While he was changing the oil to a lady's car, he thought back to a time when he restored a car that was completely demolished - a black beauty that he longed to have once again.

At five, Carmen pulled up to the garage - honking twice to get Dean's attention. He bid quick goodbye to his boss before getting into the car. She handed him over a bag filled with Chinese food before pulling out of the parking lot. The only thing he could think of was that he needed his own car. A nice, old muscle car, because he didn't know how much more embarrassment he could take in riding in Carmen's Buick. Impalas were much better. Perhaps he could convince her to get a new car.

"How was your first day?" she asked as she situated the food onto the kitchen table while he got the plates.

"Guy didn't trust me at all. I'm good with cars. I know that."

"Well, then you better show him what you're made of."

She walked towards the cabinets to grab the silverware. He didn't know what made him do it, but he strolled up behind her. With his arms blocking her in, his fists gripping the edge of the counter, he leaned in and brushed a kiss against her lips. It was a chaste kiss that only lasted a few seconds and left him with a longing for more. Looping her arms around his neck, she smirked as she stood up on her tiptoes to relock their lips together. Parting his lips to deepen the kiss, he felt her body press against his perfectly as though she were made for him. The Chinese food was long forgotten as soon as Carmen's hands found their way under Dean's grease and oil smeared t-shirt.

He shot up in bed, glancing over at the clock by Carmen's bed. It blinked 12:34. Rubbing his palms into his eyes until he saw an array of multicolored swirls, he fought to keep his heart at a steady rate. Glancing to his left, Dean was glad to see that he hadn't woken her up. Squinting around the darkness, he searched for his boxers that had been discarded hours ago. Carefully, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and eased off - wincing slightly as the springs squeaked. Grabbing his jeans from the floor, he put them on quickly before making his way to the guest room.

Listening intently for Carmen, he grabbed the butter knife from under his pillow and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. Reaching a hand into his pant pocket, he was relieved that the salt packets were still there. He was dead tired and just wanted to sleep, but the nightmares of yellow eyes wouldn't let him be.

A clanking sounded from the right of him. Whipping around, he glanced at the closet. The door was slightly ajar. A prickling sensation ran up his neck as he grabbed the knife from his pocket. He held it in front of him, the grip feeling all too familiar. Wrenching open the door with his free hand, his heart pounded widely as he took notice that there was nothing there except his clothes. There was no monster, no yellow eyes, nothing but darkness. Pushing the few clothes to the side, he did a quick glance over of the closet. Why the hell was he so paranoid about things that go bump in the night?

_"Dean, wake up,"_ he heard a little boy whine. _"There's somethin' in the closet."_

_"There's nothing there. You can sleep with me, okay? Just get into bed."_

_"But Dad gave me a .45 and told me to deal with it," _the voice was small and scared. _"Can you shoot it for me? Please, Dean."_

Blinking back the memory, his throat tightened. Closing the closet door, he retreated to Carmen's room. Why the hell would his dad give his younger brother a gun to deal with some so-called monster in the closet? Part of him wanted to scream that there was no such thing as monsters but there was a gnawing at the back of his mind that said _of course there is and you should be scared_. Crawling under the covers, he felt Carmen curl into his side. Her face buried itself into the crook of his arm as a hand rested on top of his amulet. Letting his eyes slide shut, he tried to keep the nightmares at bay.

It was Thursday, and Thursday meant Dean had to go to therapy. He thought about skipping the session. It wasn't like the doctor would really care. When his appointment time came around three o'clock, he started walking back to the house. Except, halfway there, Carmen's Buick pulled up along side him. There was a sour look on her face as she opened the passenger door and motioned for him to get in.

"How'd you know I was planning on skipping out?" he asked, slightly annoyed and amused at the same time.

"You hated the hospital, and you should have seen your face when Doctor Harris told you to go to therapy. You're an open book sometimes, Dean."

So he sat in the waiting room, flipping through a car magazine. Glancing around, he sunk down in his chair. Though he doubted anyone would recognize him, he felt uncomfortable in the situation. He'd seen shrinks on television. He knew exactly what they were like with their 'how does that make you feel?' and 'why do you think you perceive things that way?' It wasn't like he could sit back and retell a horrible childhood he had to find out why his mind was so fucked up. For that matter, he couldn't even tell the shrink what happened a month ago. It was pointless, and he knew he couldn't be helped by some stranger just because he has a degree from some fancy college.

"Dean?"

A guy, probably the shrink, looked around the room for his patient. When he didn't get up right away, the other occupants in the waiting room started looking around. Tossing the magazine aside, he stood up and swiftly made his way over to the guy. They went through a small hallway until they reached a room. It even had one of those shrink couches he saw on TV. Going over to the couch, he sat down with his elbows on his knees. There was no way he was going to lie down and spill his guts out.

"My name is Doctor Weston. It's nice to meet you," the doc introduced himself as he sat down in a leather wingback chair.

"So I gathered," he replied as Weston pulled out a pen and opened a file.

"So, Dean, why don't you tell me how you're coping with your amnesia?"

What a stupid question. He could already tell the little session wasn't going to go over so well. Glancing behind the doctor, he looked at the medical degree on the wall from Harvard. His gaze shifted around the room, looking for all escape routes. He noted the window and the door. The window would be a last ditch resort, because he was on the fifth floor and the fall down wouldn't be so pleasant.

"How do you think?" Dean questioned the doc as he looked at a picture on his desk of two little girls with their arms around each other. "You ever have amnesia?"

"I know it can be frustrating-"

"Sorry, _Doc_, but you don't know shit," he cut him off while giving Weston a deadpan look.

"Why don't you tell me what you have remembered thus far?"

"Isn't it already in my file? Didn't the hospital keep you up-to-date?"

"It's been five days since your release. A lot can be remembered in five days, Dean."

"Yeah, well, not as much as you would think. My doctors at Lawrence Memorial said it would be a slippery slope since I remembered my name. It hasn't."

The doctor jotted down a few notes. Dean rolled his eyes, mentally cursing Carmen for actually checking up on him like a five year old to make sure he went to the quack like a good little boy. Leaning back into the couch, he considered making crap up just to please the doctor and get a full bill of health so he could stop coming. They sat in silence for a good five minutes. The doc stared intently at him, wanting Dean to make the first move. However, he merely looked around the room without much interest. _He_ wasn't going to be the first to talk.

"Have you made any friends?" The doc caved. One point Dean, zero points Weston.

"Yeah, I live with this girl."

"Does this girl have a name?"

"Carmen."

"Where did you meet Carmen?" the doctor inquired as he went back to writing notes down.

"The hospital."

Dean was determined not to give more information than the doctor asked. It was starting to piss him off; Dean could see it in his face. He smirked to himself, congratulating himself on a job well down. The doc leaned back in his own chair, situating the file in his lap. Bringing his hands together in front of his face as though he was praying, Weston gave Dean a small, sad smile.

"I can't help you unless you let me in," the doc told him pensively.

"How can you help me?" Dean bit out. "You have some nice voodoo magic you can perform on me? You got a cure for amnesia? Got some good ole herbs you can whip together, Merlin?"

"I've dealt with amnesia patients before, Dean. In your case, your amnesia was triggered by an emotional event that occurred. I believe your case is a lot like the Centipede's Dilemma. A centipede is asked how it keeps its legs coordinated. After that question, the centipede cannot function, cannot walk correctly because the legs are not coordinated anymore since it's thinking about too much about its legs. The notion was drilled in its brain, and it cannot recall the actions needed. You woke up from a traumatic experience, your mind hazy. You are asked your name; you're dumbfounded for several seconds. The doctor tells you not to worry; you just have a spell of amnesia. Your mind cannot function then just as the centipede's legs could not coordinate." Weston paused for a few seconds to let the information to settle in before adding, "It's my own personal theory."

Dean glanced at the Harvard degree again just to make sure this guy actually graduated college before he said anything.

"So you're comparing my mind being screwed up from a very traumatic experience to a fictional story about a centipede?"

Feeling more than a little irritated, Dean stood up and walked out of the room. The doc must have been relieved because he didn't even attempt to stop his patient from walking out the door and slamming it shut. Dean made up his mind right then and there. Therapy wasn't for him. He'd be damned if he went back.

Walking down the streets of Lawrence, he tried to absorb anything familiar. Some of the buildings looked like they belonged in long lost dreams that were tucked away neatly in his head. Passing a park, he saw a little boy pumping his legs to go higher on the swing. His laughter was loud, childish. With a determined scrunch of the nose, he screamed for his father's attention before jumping off the swing. Falling to the ground, his hands and knees covered in dirt, the kid broke out in a full run to his dad.

"Did ya see me?" the kid asked not even noticing the small trail of blood running from his knee. "I jumped _so_ high!"

Dragging his eyes away from the father and son, he noticed a small T-Ball game in progress. The kids couldn't have been more than five as they swung their huge, red plastic bats at the ball resting on idly the stand. He could picture himself standing there with the red bat in his hand, a juvenile smirk on his face as he looked to the sidelines. He knew his father would be on the sideline with his teammates who were waiting to bat. His dad used to love baseball. Dean could even recall watching his dad play, sitting with his mother in the stands cheering for him. A part of him knew that the happiness of the small family didn't last long. He knew the fire was to blame for it… he knew that after the fire he no longer played T-Ball, his father no longer coached, their love for baseball was long forgotten. Dean knew they no longer lived for the love of life but for a darker purpose that he couldn't quite place his finger on.

Not being able to stand the playground atmosphere anymore, Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. Caressing the salt packet in his pocket, he slipped into the first store he saw. It was a small grocery store. He browsed through the aisles looking for the salt. Perhaps he could buy a container or two. The two dollars in change was in his jean pocket. Glancing over the few salt products the store had, he could hear the deafening cheering from the T-Ball game outside. A little kid slid into home to get the point.

_"I don't wanna play baseball. I wanna play soccer,"_ his brother's young voice filled his head again.

_"Come on, baseball is a big kid's sport."_

_"But, Dee-ean, we played soccer in gym class, and it was fun. Please, play soccer with me."_

_"Sa-"_

_"Please. Daddy won't let me join the soccer team. Can't you play with me? I'll play you for it."_

_"Nah, it's fine. We can kick the stupid ball around for a little bit."_

Dean stared at the salt, a frown on his face. Grabbing the cheap stuff that was two for a dollar, he made his way to the checkout with an 'S' name on his mind. He could picture a pathetic puppy dog look on his brother's blurry face. Somehow, he knew that the kid only had to look at him with a sad look planted on his face and Dean would do anything for him. He wanted to find his brother more than anything, wondering how old the kid was. His chest tightened at the thought of his brother.

Walking into Carmen's, he saw she was curled up in the fuzzy orange chair with a book resting on her lap. She looked up, her eyebrow cocked up. Her gaze wandered from his face to the blue plastic bag dangling at his side. Her mouth opened, as though to question him, but decided against it. Clearing her throat, she bent the corner of the page down before closing the book.

"I went to pick you up about an hour ago," she started instead, "and you weren't there."

"Sorry, I walked. Needed to clear my head."

"It's fine. You know, my brother, he knows a guy who works at an impound lot. He said that he might be able to get you a car that's supposed to go up for auction. He can pull a few strings for you if you like."

"Sounds great. Thank him for me."

"Dean, are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's just… frustrating to remember a bunch of random crap that isn't important. Why the hell can't I remember my brother's name? Why isn't he looking for me?"

"He's probably trying-"

"I have these moments where I hear his voice but not see his face. He's always this little kid, coming to me to fix things. When he's in my head, I don't think of him as my annoying little brother, you know, like most people do. I see him as this little kid that I have to protect, because it's my job or something. I have these weird feelings like I view him as my responsibility, like he's my charge or something." He paused, trying to keep his emotions intact. "What if he's hurt? What if he needs me? What am I supposed to do, Carmen? What am I supposed to do?"

"Dean…"

"I feel like I let him down, like I'm always letting him down."

That night, Dean rolled out of Carmen's bed, barely taking notice of the squeaks of the springs. He didn't give the yellow eyes time to haunt him, didn't dare to close his eyes to sleep. Grabbing his pants from the floor, he pushed his legs through the holes and made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. Going to the cabinet where the salt lay, he grabbed the two new containers he bought. Carmen looked at him oddly when he put them away but didn't say anything. He was grateful he didn't have to explain, because he didn't think he could even if he wanted to. What would he say? The salt gives him an odd sense of protection? Yeah, that would go over real well. He'd be carded off quickly in the white van.

He proceeded to salt the house. Every door, window, and air vent he could find had a thing layer of salt in front of it. Sitting down in the orange chair in the living room, he held the silver butter knife in his hand. He was waiting for the thing to come. Though he oddly knew he didn't have the right weapon to kill the thing, he certainly could give it a good scare. At least he hoped so.

He felt someone tapping his cheek, whispering his name. Opening his eyes, he saw Carmen standing in front of him with her robe wrapped tightly around her petite form. There was a glimmer of worry shining in her eyes. That was then he remembered what he did last night with the salt. Turning his head to the front door, he saw that the salt line unbroken and beaming menacingly. Dropping the knife onto his lap, he looked up at Carmen.

"Dean, what the hell is going on?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? Why is there salt everywhere? Why are you clenching a knife?" She stepped away from him. "You're scaring me, Dean. Just talk to me."

"I'm having these nightmares."

"Nightmares? So salt and a knife are going to help them go away?" her tone was sarcastic but trembled dangerously.

"I don't know, Carmen, okay? I have all these ideas and thoughts running through my head that I can't explain. Salt… it's pure. It repeals evil."

"Evil? Like serial killer evil or ghost evil?"

"Something like the ghost evil."

"The knife?"

"It's made of silver." He sighed. "I know how this sounds, okay? It's freaking you out. I can see it. It's freaking me out too though." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Please, Carmen, I need your help. We're connected. I can feel it."

"Come on. Let's get back to bed. We'll… talk about this in the morning."

She extended a shaky hand out to him. He took it, squeezing the small fingers in what he hope was reassurance. Discarding the butter knife onto the chair, he tried to fight back the fears that started to consume him. Worry lines crossed his forehead as he took the first step. He could do this. Nothing was going to get him. Nothing was going to get Carmen. They were safe. There were no such things as ghosts, demons, monsters. There were no yellow eyes. It was all his imagination. He beat the message into his head, hoping that the insecurities would wash away.

* * *

Here's another chapter. Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing. An overwhelming number of people have added the story to their alert and/or favorite story list. I believe that I replied to every review I was able to. Thanks for reading and do leave a comment. Good or bad. 


	4. Battling Windmills

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Four: Battling Windmills"**

He couldn't sleep with his mind so full. Carmen found out his big dirty secret, even though he didn't understand the secret himself. It was a quarter after four when he left her bed again. He laid there for a good hour, waiting until her breathing evened out. Sitting in the kitchen, he noticed the salt lines weren't broken. A strange sense of relief filled him. They were still safe. He couldn't for the life of him understand why it was so vital. A part of him wanted to tell Carmen he had paranoid delusions - as simple as that. Another part of him wanted to tell her that he thinks he used to hunt demons, ghosts, and general creepy-crawlies as though he was Dan Aykroyd who wanted to hunt down the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. He couldn't decide which one sounded less like buckets of crazy.

There was a voice inside his head that told him he was fighting the good fight, a war between the damned and the not so damned. He swallowed thickly. Why couldn't he just be normal? A normal guy with amnesia? Did there really need to be the salt and silver and general Mad Hatter-ness about him? He lost his father and his brother. Hell, he didn't even know if they were alive. He had Carmen though. The nurse that made him laugh and helped ease his bizarre fears.

At around eight in the morning, Carmen appeared in the kitchen. She seemed less freaked than the night before, though she was pale and a little tense. Closing the distance between them, she sat down across from him. Resting her forearms on the table, she leaned forward slightly. He could see that she was thinking about how to state what she wanted to say, obviously struggling with it.

"So," she finally spoke, "this ghost hunting you are involved in… that's new."

"Yeah, well, try remembering the weirdest shit and not knowing how or why you know it," he tried to sound light but his words came out harsher than he wanted.

"Maybe you just watched too much TV growing up. I mean, your love for _MacGyver_ and _Matlock_ but not knowing why. You could have watched too much _Ghostbusters_ and _X-Files _and… you know?" She sighed. "Dean, please tell me that you're just a TV junkie and not insane."

"I hope so."

Carmen closed her eyes tightly, burying her face into her hands. She let out a half laugh, half sob. Reaching forward, Dean grabbed her wrist, pulling it away from her face. Swallowing hard, he mustered up the most sympathetic smile he could. His throat was dry, his mind numb. He wanted to comfort her, tell her he was sorry for causing her so much grief. The words locked themselves in his throat. He wasn't one for apologies.

"Maybe I'm just… battling windmills," the phrase was out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying.

_"This crusade of yours has been for nothing! It's all pointless! You've ruined your children's lives hunting the thing that killed Mom, except you're never going to find it! No matter how many people you save, Mom will still be dead and she's not coming back,"_ the little boy's voice inside his head was older and pissed as hell.

_"Don't you dare talk about your mother like that!"_ a harsh voice responded, his father's voice.

_"You're battling windmills, Dad! Fighting pointless, imaginary battles with conviction because in your twisted mind, you think you can get Mom back! She's not coming back! So stop doing it! Let Dean and me live a normal life for once! We didn't deserve to be raised like warriors! We needed a father who was there for us when we needed him, not someone absent all the time hunting God knows what! Dean's been more of a father to me than you ever were."_

He could remember, when his brother was a kid in honor classes, he'd often refer every situation back to a book. Maybe it was just to irritated their dad or maybe because he that was how he earned the coveted nickname of Geek Boy. Dean remembered driving his little brother to a bus stop after _the fight_, the fight of all fights. Somehow, he knew that his family had their fair share of fights but never one quite like that - one that ended up in his little brother leaving home. He remembered asking his brother what exactly he meant when he said their father was battling windmills, because he sure as hell knew that the things their family hunted were real.

_"Don Quixote battled windmills, because he thought he was fighting ferocious giants. Dad thinks he's battling the thing that murdered Mom; but he's really only fighting himself, Dean, and it's killing him. The nonstop battling of anything supernatural… just hoping that one time he comes across the demon that killed Mom. It's pointless. I want out before I turn into him."_

Dean was quiet, lost in his thoughts. It wasn't until Carmen touched his cheek ever so slightly did he snap out of the flow of painful memories. Locking gaze with her, he decided right then and there. He had to stop battling windmills. The salt, the knife, the silver… it all had to stop. He was certain he would drive himself mad. Why did he have to sacrifice everything for demons and ghosts? It wasn't fair. Then there was that tiny voice in the back of his mind that screamed at him to not be so foolish.

_"Your happiness, for all those peoples' lives? No contest."_

He knew he could stay, live the happy apple pie life with Carmen. He wanted it more than anything else - the safeness of it, the unfamiliar notion of family. It wasn't him. He was a fighter, a hunter. He knew that as clear as day. It was what defined him. Hunting and his little brother are what made him who he was. Without them, he was just the average Joe with a nine-to-five job, the white-picket fence, and the two-point-five kids. The concept was a little sickening.

"Dean?"

Maybe if he could just find his brother, they could live in Lawrence and live happily ever after. They didn't need to hunt. They didn't need to be freaks. He didn't need the salt and the knife. He could be normal. His heart clenched having no idea what it was like to be normal. Running a hand down his face, he tried to push the thoughts out of his mind. He didn't have a choice in the matter.

"I'm sorry," he managed to get out.

"I know you're going through a hard time," she started. "I really do get that. This could just be post-traumatic stress or something. I can help you."

His mind wanted to tell her that she couldn't help him even if she wanted to, but he wanted nothing more than for her to fix everything. The dread of being doomed to hunt vibrated in the back of his mind. He knew he couldn't without his memories in tact. It would be dangerous and stupid. A part of him yearned to hunt, to hold a gun in his hands with his finger on the trigger. He knew he was a good shot.

"You don't believe in ghosts or anything?" he asked.

"To an extent I guess. I mean… I suppose it's possible. Anything is possible. It's just the fact that you're calling yourself a Ghostbuster that's upsetting."

Carmen tried her best to let the routine they were still forming to happen that Friday. She drove him to work and then went to the hospital. Dean stood in the parking lot of the garage, unsure if he should even bother walking in. If he had to spend one more day changing oil or prepping cars, he was going to go spastic. He could fix the cars no problem.

When lunch rolled around, and Dean wasn't trusted to actually fix a car, he left work. He didn't need that crap. Wandering around Lawrence, he tried to take in as much of the town as he could. The more he explored, the more certain buildings or areas became familiar to him. He wasn't sure if it was memories coming back or the act of forming new ones. Either way, Lawrence wasn't the evil beacon he first thought it was while in the hospital. It was just another town in America.

He found himself in a residential area with cookie-cutter houses. There was one house, a small white bungalow that was unlike the rest of the houses, that called out to him. Stepping up the stairs, he knocked on the front door. He could imagine himself standing on the front porch before. It was all too familiar. The door opened and a dark woman appeared. She looked him over, her eyebrow rising slightly.

"If you're looking for Missouri, she's not here."

"Who?"

"_Who_? Boy, why're you on the porch ringing a doorbell if you don't know who lives here?"

"I don't know," he said thickly. "When will Missouri be back?"

"She's not. She died a little over a week ago. I'm her sister."

Faltering, he didn't know what to say or do. The name Missouri hit a chord in his mind, but that could have just been because there was a state of the same name. Perhaps he was getting the two confused. Then again, to hear the woman died and he was drawn to her house… something was offsetting about that. A little over a week ago was around the time that he must have been admitted to the hospital. Nothing was a coincidence.

"I can't do what she did," the woman continued. "You gotta find yourself a new psychic buddy."

"She was a psychic?"

"What? Are you trying to sell something, Boy?"

"Uh, no. Sorry for your loss."

Dean backed up, wanting to get as far away from the house as he could. There was another thing to add to his already growing pile of weird. A psychic? Seriously? Mounds of mystery just kept being thrown on. He wanted answers, needed them. If only he could just get through the barrier holding his past at bay. The puzzle pieces were laid out in front of him, he just had to put them together.

For the next couple of hours, he continued to wander around Lawrence. He called Carmen, told her not to pick him up at the garage. He'd meet her at home. She seemed slightly concerned, asking him what exactly he was going to do. The trust between them was starting to wan or perhaps she was just a little suspicious of his actions as of late. He couldn't blame her for that. If he found someone he let stay in his house with a knife and laid salt all over the damn place, he probably would have given them some buckshot instead of letting them stay any longer with him.

Spotting a video rental store, Dean wandered in to look at the titles. A lot of them he recognized, but he couldn't remember what they were about. His gaze locked on _Ghostbusters_ and couldn't help but snatch it. If Carmen didn't laugh when he showed her, then she wasn't the girl he thought she was and he could bail easily enough without a second thought. Turning down the to the old science fiction movies of the 1950's, he searched a movie that he thought Carmen would roll her eyes at. _From Hell It Came_ shone brightly up at him. In the back of his mind, he pictured lying next to a naked Carmen twisted up in the covers with the movie playing on the plasma television hung on the wall. Except, in Carmen's cluttered house, she didn't have a plasma on her bedroom wall. Grabbing the movie, he went to checkout.

Carmen gave him a couple hundred dollars to help him buy lunch and other necessities he might need until his first paycheck rolled around. It was awkward when she gave him the money, but he pocketed it and said he's pay her back. He didn't do charity. Handing over the five dollars and some loose change, the action seemed foreign to him. It was as though he could picture himself only paying with credit cards, rarely paying with real money.

By the time he got back to the house, Carmen was already home munching on pizza she bought. He sat the movies down on the kitchen table and sat next to her, grabbing a slice. Reaching forward, she grabbed the plastic bag and turned it upside down. The movies tumbled out in front of her, _Ghostbusters_ shining up at her. She laughed, a good-natured laugh, as she reached over and punched Dean lightly in the arm. He chuckled with her as he snagged another piece of pizza.

"I can't believe you," she said with a smile dancing on her lips.

"It sounded like an awesome idea."

After dinner, they slouched on the couch together watching one movie after another. Somewhere around eleven, Carmen's head drooped on his shoulder. Her breath was coming out even. Glancing down at the top of her head, he brushed her hair behind her ear before wrapping the arm tightly around her small shoulders. He pulled her close to him, taking in her strawberry and stale hospital scent. She hadn't cleaned up the salt yet and for that he was oddly grateful. She was letting him deal with his little breakdown on his own time and by his own means. She wasn't pushing him to figure it out or change. He couldn't understand how a girl like her would even give him a second look.

Sometime during _From Hell It Came_, Dean fell asleep himself with his head positioned uncomfortably on top of Carmen's tangled mess of hair. He only woke up when he felt her body stir next to him, her hand gripping a fistful of his shirt. Sitting up straight, his neck protested painfully as he moved it from side to side to crack it. Carmen sat up, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She yawned, her head tilting into his arm.

"What time is it?" she questioned as her hand rubbed his arm.

Looking down at the VCR, it blinked 4:23. He groaned before telling her the time. A protest was caught in her throat as she scooted away from him to give her room to lie down. Her head found its way into his lap, her hand resting on his knee. She shifted again, digging her ear into his thigh.

"Your jeans aren't comfy," she whined as he laughed.

Sliding her head off his leg, laying it gently onto the squishy couch, he stood up. Twisting his stiff upper body around, he turned to look at Carmen. Her eyes were drooping as she reached out for him, her fingertips sliding ever so slightly in his jeans. She pulled him closer to him before letting go. Her hand glided down his leg until it dangled off the side of the couch.

"Carry me?" she asked innocently with a sleepy smile.

Reaching down, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other under the small of her back. Hoisting her upwards, her arms immediately latched themselves around his neck. Her head sagged onto his shoulder. He could feel her hot breath on his neck. The small puffs of air almost instantly evened out. Once inside her bedroom, he laid her down onto the bed. Stripping down into his boxers, he slid in next to her. As his weight shifted the bed, she turned towards him in her sleep. His chest was now her pillow as her arm snaked around his abdomen.

He felt peace within him, something that he knew was hard for him to find. His eyes closed shut and for the first time since he woke up in the hospital, he didn't dream of yellow eyes or fire. Instead, he dreamed of him and Carmen chatting with a blurry man who was unmistakably his mysterious forgotten brother. He could picture small children running around the house, their childish laughter echoing in his head. There was even a dog that chased its tail and pounced on tiny bugs in the grass. He dreamt of T-Ball games and dance recitals where he was the proud parent with Carmen and Geek Boy always by his side.

The next morning, Carmen drove him out to the impound lot where he met her brother's old high school friend, Davey Lowe. Most of the cars were hunks of junk, doors and glass missing. Others were vans or imported cars. He wanted a classic car, a nice muscle car that he wouldn't be embarrassed to drive. There was a black '94 Chevy Impala. The passenger was dented in and the bumper was falling off. Though, to Dean, a '94 was a baby of an Impala, he took it anyways. Something about the car felt familiar as though he could drive the car down stretches of road with mullet rock blaring out of the speakers. If only the car was older, it would be perfect.

The rest of the day, he worked on the car to bring it back to its original condition. Carmen sat in the driveway next by him, keeping him company as he restored the car. They talked about anything and everything except for salt, silver, and things that go bump in the night. He knew she was waiting for him to bring it up, to talk about what was going through his mind. He didn't feel like talking about it. He didn't feel like driving her away just because he has an outlandish belief that in his pre-amnesia life he was a hunter of all things evil.

That's how it was for the next month. The two worked, dated, lived together, did almost everything with each other. They only spoke of Dean's obsession with salt and knives only once. He admitted it was strange and new, but he felt safe with the salt lines in place. She shrugged it off, allowing the salt to stay where it was. It didn't bug her all that much, but he could tell she worried about him and his mental state. The nightmares came and went. Some nights he'd wake up in a sweat, the yellow eyes glowing painfully in front of him. Other nights were normal without any disturbances. He often remembered Geek Boy. Flashes of their lives as children cluttered his mind. He rarely thought of the times when they were older. In the memories, he was always taking care of the kid. He'd yet to remember the kid's real name. His mania on demons and ghosts were still intact, but he tried to push away the murky thoughts. He had the silver butter knife hidden in the nightstand on his side of the bed, hoping that Carmen would never find it. If she did, she never said anything about it.

It was September 29 that Carmen came home from the hospital with a smile playing on her lips. She pulled in aside, a giggle caught up in her words. He couldn't help but smile at her giddiness, encouraging her to just tell him what was up. Grabbing his wrist, she brought his hand to rest underneath her breast. Her eyes were alit with excitement as he raised his eyebrows.

"I'm almost three weeks pregnant," she whispered.

At first, he was shell-shocked. Standing there with a dumbfounded look on his face, he tried to figure out if he even liked kids. He liked Geek Boy or what he remembered of the little boy. As long as his kid wasn't a brat, he could deal with it. Bursting out laughing, he gathered Carmen into his arms and kissed the side of her head. His only wish is that he could share the moment with his kid brother. Geek Boy was never far from his mind.

The next night, on September 30, he surfed through the channels on the television looking for something interesting to watch. Carmen was curled up next to him with a book on her lap. Wrapping an arm around her petite frame, he drew her closer as he stopped on the eleven o'clock news broadcast. He wasn't one for watching the news but there was nothing else on. The newswoman was on a highway, but he couldn't hear what she was saying. Turning up the volume, Carmen looked up at the screen.

"…is now the fifth victim to disappear on Route 59 in Lawrence and the outskirts of Lawrence in the past two weeks. The cars were found abandoned on the side of the highway, the doors locked and seemingly nothing missing. Personal belongings as well as money were left in the cars. If you have any information on the disappearances on Route 59, please contact your local police department. I'm Polly Dexter reporting to you live from Route 59. Back to you, Frank."

Dean clicked off the television, his brow furrowed. He had an overwhelming urge to check out what was going on. His grip on Carmen tightened ever so slightly as his mind raced through the possibilities of what could be happening on Route 59. He felt Carmen's hand slide onto his thigh, squeezing it as a puzzled look crossed her face. Looking down at her, he tried to keep his face indifferent to the report.

"It's horrible," he said. "We shouldn't go on the highway."

"We haven't been on the highway, Dean."

"Yeah, I know. It's just… let's not go anywhere near it. Okay? Just in case."

Dean waited for Carmen to slip off into dreamland. When he was positive she was fast asleep, he slipped out of bed and grabbed his clothes. Walking downstairs as quietly as he could, he booted up the computer in the living room. As though by instinct, he started searching for unusual deaths on Route 59 in the last twenty years. One caught his eye, a murder that happened three weeks ago. A guy was found on the side of the road due to a blow to the side of the head. Remnants of glass were lodged into his skull. A week later, the disappearances started occurring. The police saw no connection between the dead guy and the disappearances. Those that vanished were yet to be found.

The stairs squeaked, and Dean quickly shut off the monitor. Carmen appeared on the steps, her hair bedridden and face pale. Walking over to her, he wrapped an arm around her waist and led her back upstairs. She looked at him with blurry eyes, her hand resting on her stomach.

"You okay?"

"Just nauseous. What were you doing up?"

"I forgot to send out an e-mail," he lied. "Want to make a pit stop in the bathroom? I'm becoming an expert on holding back your hair as you hurl."

"Shut up, Dean." She slapped him playfully.

In the back of his mind, Dean knew he had to check out the disappearances on the highway. There was no way he could let innocent people disappear and eventually die without doing anything about it. Then again, he had Carmen - a pregnant Carmen who was carrying his child. If he was to check it out, who's to say he wouldn't be the next victim? He'd sleep on it; decide in the morning if it was worth putting his life on the line for the good of others.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed the new chapter. The reviews have declined which was quite saddening. People are still adding it to their story alert/favorite story achieves which I'm happy to see. So do remember that reviews are very welcome and greatly appreciated. I believe I replied to all the reviews I was allowed to. Anyways, I very much need the motivation of you rreviews as there's going to be more action going on. 


	5. Hobson's Choice

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Five: Hobson's Choice"**

There was something weird about taking a pot and melting silver in it. There was, however, something familiar about it. He'd skipped out on work, calling in sick, to do the task at hand. He contemplated the situation all night. People were dying, and it was his job to help them. He didn't have a choice in the matter; it was the only option being offered to him. Not thinking twice, when the silver was completely melted, he poured them into bullet molds. Letting them dry, he went on to make the rock salt he bought in bulk into ammo. He even swung by the local church and grabbed some holy water on his way home from an arms dealer where he bought a rifle and handgun.

He vaguely wondered why it was so easy for him to lie. The words seemed to slip off his tongue without any problems whatsoever. Granted, he hated lying to Carmen, but he couldn't very well tell her that he thought the disappearances on the highway were caused by a malevolent spirit - or something close to that. He wasn't quite sure on the details. All he knew is the guy that was murdered three weeks ago died a brutal death and now others were disappearing. Telling Carmen he was going out with a couple of buddies from the garage, he hauled himself into the Impala and drove towards the highway without really a plan but a mission.

The abandoned cars were found within ten miles either way from where the original dead guy's body was. He drove up the strip of road, looking for anything that looked spirit-like - even though he had no idea what a spirit would look like. All he knew is that rock salt would hurt the spirit. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, he pulled off the highway to turn around and start looking over again.

It was close to three hours of driving up and down the highway and there was nothing. Frustrated, Dean started to feel like he had mistaken the whole thing. Perhaps ghosts weren't real. Maybe the whole situation was just involved some guy kidnapping people. Turning around one last time, he headed down the highway towards his home. He was paying little attention to what was happening around him. There was something that caught his eye, causing him to slow the car down.

On the side of the road was a sleek black '67 Chevy Impala. Pulling off the road, he parked behind the car. Cutting the engine, he grabbed the handgun filled with silver bullets and got out of the car. Sliding the gun down the small of his back into his waistband of his jeans, he walked towards the driver side of the car. The gun felt heavy in his pants but familiar. Patting his pant pocket, he noticed the salt was still there. Checking the inside of his leather jacket, he noted the vial of holy water was there was well. He was good for anything, or so he hoped.

Glancing into the driver door, no one was in the car. It looked familiar inside, the leather bench seat seemed to welcome him. He could imagine himself behind the wheel with Geek Boy sitting next to him. Shifting his gaze to the backseat, he saw a laptop sitting there with decals on the top. It was very familiar.

_"__Dean! Would you - just - don't touch my stuff anymore, okay?"_

It was Geek Boy's stuff in the car… his car. He could remember the thing as clear as day. It used to be his dad's before it was passed down to him. Going to the trunk, Dean pulled out a paperclip from his pocket and straightened it. Bending down, he swiftly picked the lock and pushed the lid open. There was a duffle bag sitting there. Underneath it was a locked compartment. Without thinking, he whirled the numbers in the correct order and popped it open.

The compartment was stashed with weapons, knives, holy water, and salt. Breathing heavily, he snatched a few more rounds for his handgun. Shoving them into his pocket, he closed the compartment and the trunk. Looking around, he wandered where the hell Geek Boy could be. There was a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that he'd been taken by the spirit or whatever it was. He had to get his brother back, save him before it was too late. He couldn't let his brother down anymore than he already had.

"Dean," a female voice called from behind him.

Whipping around, he saw a woman dressed in a sleek black dress. Her brown hair framed her face. There was a smirk on her face, her blue eyes clouding over black for several seconds before returning to normal. Dean stumbled backwards into the car as he reached behind him for the gun pressed against the small of his back.

"You really can't just let it go, can you?" she asked bitterly. "We gave you everything you wanted. A new lease on life for your last several months alive without anything to worry about and all we asked is that you forget Sammy."

_Sammy_. The name pounded in his head. Sammy. His name was Sammy. He knew that. He's always known that. Sam and Dean. Swallowing hard, his hand wrapped tightly around the gun, he stared at the woman - no _demon_ - in front of him. Her hands were in front of her, clasped together. An annoyed look danced on her face as she stared back at him.

"All you wanted was a family, Dean, to be happy. A family with the girl of your dreams. We united you, and you couldn't play by the rules."

"Where's Sammy?" he managed to ask in an even voice.

"Trust me, if I knew, he'd already be dead." She took a step forward. "He's been hard to locate lately with all his fancy protection. Moving around quicker than usual too, trying to find his big brother. Taking cases only because he hopes he'll find you there. Checking out cheap motel rooms for a Jim Rockford, hoping you were looking for him too. Pathetic really."

Slowly, he pulled the gun up his back, his thumb on the safety. There were only silver bullets, and he doubted that silver would work against a demon. Actually, he knew they wouldn't but he had to do something. If only he could buy himself just a little bit of time to get back into his car. Sammy was out there somewhere. He could be dying, and Dean was too busy making chitchat with a demon. He had to act quickly.

"Don't even try it, Dean. You'll only kill the meat suit and not me." She smirked. "Forget about Sammy with his demon blood. He's tainted. He's different. What you brought back wasn't even your brother. He only brought you grief. Go back home, Dean, before we need to wipe your memory clean again."

"You did this?" Dean questioned, as he pulled the strings in his mind to connect what the demon was telling him but the haze was still in place.

"Our old leader thought Johnny was the problem. He totally underestimated you boys. Our new leader… he didn't underestimate you. He…"

She stumbled backwards, her head shooting straight up into the twinkling sky. Her mouth sagged as a scream escaped her lips. Black smoke emitted from her mouth, twisting upwards before reverting its direction. The smoke darted towards the ground and disappeared. The girl fell to the ground in a heap. Jerking slightly, she got up on her hands and looked around frightened. Her chest was heaving as she struggling to stand up.

"Where am I? How did I get here?" she sobbed as she stared up at Dean. "Please, don't kill me."

Within the next two hours, Dean managed to get the '67 Impala towed back to his place as well as get the girl to the hospital to be checked out. It wasn't until past two in the morning did he return home. Carmen was up, sitting in the living room with her arms crossed over her chest. Closing the front door, Dean went directly to the desk to grab the phonebook. Something the demon said sparked a memory in the back of his mind.

"Why is there an old car outside our house?" she questioned as he flipped through the pages. "Henry from the garage just dropped it off and left."

"It's my brother's. He's here in Lawrence."

"So you found him? Was he at the bar?"

"No, I found his car… my car actually."

Stopping in the yellow pages, he flipped to the 'M' section. Quickly, he scanned the motel rooms located in Lawrence. One of them would have a Jim Rockford staying there. It was their thing. If they were separated, they would go to a motel under the name Jim Rockford. There was more to it, Dean knew that much, but he didn't know what it was. He'd just have to start from the top and go to the bottom until he found the right motel.

"Dean, tell me what's going on. Where have you been?"

"Look, this is going to sound crazy, okay? Those kidnappings on the highway, a spirit or something is doing it. Sammy's here to investigate it except he wasn't on the highway. I think he was taken. I gotta get to his motel room and find out what he knew so I can finish what he started and save his ass."

"Dean!"

Picking up the phone, he dialed the first motel number. It rang several times before someone picked up. He asked if anyone by the name of Jim Rockford was staying there. After a minute, he got the affirmative. It seemed too easy. The first motel in the phonebook was where Sammy was staying? It must have been that last piece he couldn't quite remember.

"Seriously? Which room number?" Dean nodded his head, giving Carmen a thumb's up. "Thanks a lot."

"Dean, talk to me."

"I got a hit on Sammy. I need to go."

"I'm coming with you."

The ride to the motel was tense. She didn't question what was going on, except she gave him pleading looks to talk to her. He didn't think he could explain it fully, not without Sammy. He could fill in the blanks that he was missing - the blanks that apparently a bunch of demons took away. Pulling into the parking lot, Dean got out of his car. Digging into his pocket for the discarded paperclip, he started to work on the lock into his brother's motel room.

"What the hell are you doing?" Carmen hissed as the lock clicked.

"Improvising," he replied dully.

Walking into the motel room, Dean looked around. It was as crappy as ever with a stained carpet, cracked walls, and covered in grime. The east wall was covered in papers. The papers were about the disappearances in Lawrence situated around a large map with doodles drawn on it. Looking away from the wall, his eyes locked on a journal sitting idly on the bed. His father's journal. Snatching it up, a picture fell from the pages.

The picture was of him and a tall kid with shaggy brown hair. _Sammy._ They were both laughing at something. Dean was looking away from the camera while Sammy was looking straight at it. Opening the journal, his eye caught badges from the Vietnam War that had to belong to their dad. An old picture was stuffed in the front of a man in a Marine uniform holding a rifle. _Dad_. A lump formed in his throat. There were faces to put with the people locked in his head. He was so close to finding his family and getting all the answers he'd yearned for.

"Dean? What are these?"

Turning around, Dean looked at Carmen. She was staring at the front door. There were symbols drawn all over the wood. Some seemed familiar to him even though he couldn't quite place them. Others were completely foreign to him. His gaze shifted to the solitary window in the room, the same strange symbols were drawn on the glass. He knew, oddly enough, that they were most likely protection charms. Sammy thought something was after him. _The demons_. He knew the demons were after him. Sammy knew the demons had something to do with his disappearance, his amnesia.

"I don't know exactly," he answered honestly. "I think Sammy was trying to keep something out."

"Something? There's salt everywhere too… just like what you did at the house."

Sure enough, there were thick layers of salt in front of the door and the window. Dean missed it on his way in, his mind too focused on looking for clues on what was going on. Swallowing hard, he flipped through the pages of the journal catching words and pictures. He hoped that when he found something from his past he would remember everything, but there was still so much that was locked within his mind. The information didn't come flooding back to him like he thought it would. That made it all the more frustrating. Whatever the demons did to him was huge.

"Can you call the hospital?" he questioned as he walked towards her to show her the picture of him and Sammy. "Ask if a John Doe or anyone else came in looking like him. He probably wouldn't say his name's Sam."

"This is just…" she trailed off as she dug her cell phone out of her pocket," too bizarre for words."

A couple hours later, Carmen was flipping through the journal while Dean pieced together Sammy's research. He believed that the guy who was murdered - Edmund Fiche - was a hitchhiker that got into the wrong car. Fiche was murdered and left on the side of the highway to rot. Now his spirit, dying a tragic death, was haunting the highway killing anyone who would pick up a hitchhiker. The infamous vanishing hitchhiker folklore. Dean shook his head, a breath of disbelief escaping his lips.

"Sam was looking for you," Carmen broke his thoughts.

"What?"

"He wrote something. Apparently you disappeared in Deadwood, South Dakota." She handed him the journal with the entry open. "He thought a demon got you. The 'New Yellow-Eyed Demon' as he calls it. He states that the new Yellow-Eyes isn't messing around with mind games like the old one."

Dean sank down on the bed next to Carmen, his heart pounding in his chest. He could picture the yellow eyes as clear as day in his head - the sickening eyes that haunted his dreams for a month. Sammy had been looking for him and turned up nothing. He must have been out of his mind. Running a hand through his hair, he dropped the journal in his lap. It was all too much. Sammy was confirming everything that he hoped were just paranoid delusions.

"I'm so close, Carmen. He's here somewhere. He let some damn hitchhiking ghost get the drop on him."

"You do know how crazy that sounds, right?"

"Vaguely. I'm surprised you haven't gone running and screaming yet to be completely honest with you."

"Anything's possible right? I mean… I don't know what I mean, Dean. This whole past month with you has been so surreal."

"Where do you think a vanishing hitchhiker would take its victims?" he asked.

"Dean, how the hell should I know?"

He was about to make some sort of sarcastic reply when a noise from outside the door made them both jump on the bed. Dean reached behind him, grabbing the gun. Holding it out in front of him with both hands wrapped around the metal, he waited for whatever was at the door to come barreling in. The gun was heavy in his hands but welcomingly familiar. Carmen got up from the bed, positioning herself behind Dean. Reaching out, she squeezed his shoulder. Clicking off the safety, he steadied himself.

The doorknob jiggled, a fumbling of keys could be heard. Dean's mind envisioned Sammy coming through the door but the nagging feeling in his chest told him to shoot as soon as the door opened. It seemed routine enough. He could hear his father's voice echoing in his head.

_"Shoot first. Ask questions later."_

The door swung open, and Dean's finger rushed backwards against the trigger. A loud _BANG!_ rang throughout the motel room as the figure in the doorway ducked down just in time. Dean was prepared the fire again when he suddenly found a gun pointed in his face. The guy was quick. Dean stared at the man in front of him. The man was dressed in a flannel shirt, a baseball cap positioned over his graying hair. The guy looked somewhat familiar, but Dean couldn't place how he knew the guy.

"Dean?" the guy questioned as he lowered his gun. "Goddammit, Dean."

"Do I know you?" he asked with his guy still in place.

"You don't know me? What the hell happened to you? Sam and I have been looking for you for over a month now."

"Tell me where Sam is now!" he shouted, motioning with his gun.

The guy raised his hands in the air, dropping the gun onto the bed. He looked behind Dean at Carmen before resting his gaze back on the younger man. Dean was breathing heavily now, anger and frustrating building up inside of him.

"He's in the hospital. We had a run-in with the spirit we were hunting. He'll be fine." The guy licked his lips. "Dean, it's me. Bobby. Put down the gun."

"Dean, please, let's just go to the hospital," Carmen begged.

"You said that no one with Sam's description was at the hospital," he reminded her. "He could be lying. He could be one of _them_."

"That was over an hour or two ago," she reminded him.

Dean kept staring at the guy - _Bobby_ - wanting to believe what he was saying. He couldn't wrap his mind around the man though. Sure, he remembered Sammy and John, but he couldn't remember this Bobby guy? What the hell? Dean's grip loosened ever so slightly on the gun, his arms lowering only a couple inches. He made sure he was ready to raise it again if need be.

"We gotta get out of here," Bobby said in a rush. "The cops will be here because you fired the damn gun. I hope you two have a car, because the Impala was stolen."

"The '67 Impala? I have it," Dean commented quickly as he grabbed Bobby's gun and the journal. "It's parked outside my house."

The three walked out of the motel room, Dean locking the door on his way out. They made their way over to the '94 Impala in the parking lot. He got into the driver's seat as Carmen took shotgun and Bobby in the back. Revving the engine, he quickly pulled out of the motel lot and made for Lawrence Memorial.

"You try anything, and I'll waste the whole clip on you."

"Dammit, Dean, why didn't you contact Sam? He's been going insane looking for you."

"He has amnesia," Carmen supplied.

"Carmen, no," he hissed at her, "you don't tell strangers about me or you, especially when we don't know if he's even human."

"He was with your brother…"

"We don't know that! I can't - I can't remember him! There's just this huge blank!"

"But you remembered Sam?" Bobby questioned.

"Barely until… until tonight. I got his name from a demon, and I saw his picture so I know what he looks like."

"A demon?"

"Look, I just want to see Sammy."

"Dean, we have to take care of that spirit. He nearly took off Sam's head back there!" Bobby protested. "We salted and burned the body of the guy who died three weeks ago, and the damn thing is still there. We need anoth-"

"Screw the damn job!" Dean shouted. "I want to see Sam! Why the hell is he still in the hospital? How bad is he?"

"Overnight observation. I made the kid stay. He's been out of sorts ever since you disappeared in Deadwood. I thought he needed the rest."

The rest of the ride was quiet as Dean pushed the speed limit to the hospital. He kept looking in the rearview mirror to catch glimpses of Bobby to make sure he didn't try to pull anything. Within a good twenty minutes, Dean pulled into the hospital parking ramp. Cutting the engine, the three headed towards the hospital.

Bobby led the way as Dean found it hard to breathe. After all this time, he was finally going to see his little brother. The older guy stopped outside a door and motioned for Dean to enter. Looking back at Carmen, she gave him an encouraging smile and a small push before he entered. Dean prepared himself for the mass of memories he would surely get when he saw his brother.

Sammy was lying on the bed, his pale face blending into the white sheets. His chest was rising and falling steadily, his breathing even. Dean took a step forward, his eyes taking in the large bandages that ran from his neck down to his collarbone. Reaching out, Dean brushed the kid's long hair off his forehead. He was careful not to wake his brother despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to hear his voice.

"Sammy?"

His past didn't come flooding back to him. The black hole was still there, keeping his life hostage. Swallowing thickly, Dean sat down in the chair next to his brother's bed. Sammy stirred slightly but didn't wake. His hand was lying on top of the sheets, so Dean reached out and grasped his brother's hand into his. He'd be there when Sammy woke up. He needed to be there. Looking behind him to tell Carmen to go home and rest, he saw that both she and Bobby left to give the two brothers some privacy. Turning his attention back to Sam, he waited impatiently for his brother to wake up. There was so much they needed to talk about.

* * *

So, this is actually a lot different from the original draft. You were demanding Sam, so I brought him in. The original draft had Dean going up against the spirit by himself and ended with Dean's chat with the demon. It was an action chapter, where I cut out all the action, but I brought Sam in a chapter earlier than I planned to. Therefore, the action chapter will be a little later with both Sam and Dean. I'm glad to see the reviews are back up. I believe I replied to them all. Do continue to review and keep me motivated, especially since I worked late into the night to complete this for today. 


	6. Way the Wind Blows

** "Grazed Knees" **

**"Chapter Six: Way the Wind Blows"**

The hours passed. Dean sat at Sammy's bedside the whole time, the kid's hand clenched in-between his. Perhaps it was just Dean's imagination, but he could have sworn that his brother was sleeping so peacefully because of him. Part of him, however, didn't want his brother to sleep peacefully; he just wanted Sam to wake up. There were so many unanswered questions he had. Swallowing hard, Dean tried to stay patient and refrain from shaking the kid awake. Somehow, he didn't quite think that would make everything right again.

Leaning back in the uncomfortable hospital chair, a feeling that _he _should be in the bed filling him, Dean made sure his hand was still intertwined with Sammy's hand. There was no way he was letting go of the kid, because he feared that he just might disappear if he didn't have a hold on him. Rolling his head back, his neck cracking loudly, Dean closed his eyes. It seemed that being with the person he was convinced wasn't just his brother, but was his best friend, would have the floodgates opening to his locked mind. The memories should be spilling out, drowning him. They weren't. They were still holed up inside of him.

"Dean?" a hoarse voice questioned.

Looking towards the bed, he saw his little brother awake and fully alert. Sammy was frowning, confusion written across his face. His hand jerked away from underneath Dean's grip as though he was burned. Swallowing hard, Dean forced a smile on his face as his hands dropped limply in his lap. What the hell was he supposed to say to say to his younger brother he could barely remember?

"Hey there, Sammy," he said weakly, "how you been? Gotten laid lately?"

"Dean?" he questioned again as he frowned. "Is that really you?"

"Apparently. Heard some hitchhiking ghost got the drop on you. Nice. Real… girly of you."

"What the hell, Dean? Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Yeah, about that. Look, Dude, I'm sorry. There were some… complications?"

"Complications? You couldn't pick up a friggin' phone and call me?"

"I would have, Sammy, except for the fact that-"

"What? You found some girl? Or a really good bar? Or, perhaps, you're still pissed at me because of what happened in Kentucky? Look, Dean, I know you were pissed, but I was pissed too! Just because you have a death wish doesn't mean that I'm going to sit back and watch my big brother die playing hero all the time! I told you I'd fix it. I'm not going to let what happened to Dad happen to you. I promise you, Man, but you gotta meet me half-way."

"Whoa. Whoa, Dude. I have no idea what you're talking about. About a month ago, I woke up in Lawrence Memorial with amnesia. I didn't even know your name until about six or seven hours ago. So Kentucky? What the hell happened there? What happened in Deadwood, because apparently I disappeared from there? What happened to Dad? What the hell are you talking about, Sammy, because I'm at a loss here."

Sammy stared at him, mouth hanging open and a look of utter disbelief etched on his face. He didn't say anything as though he half expected Dean to burst out laughing with a huge _gotcha!_ moment. When Dean continued to stare at him, the younger brother laughed as he struggled to sit up. Sammy stopped laughing when he noticed his brother wasn't laughing as well.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me, Man."

"Dude, I freakin' wish I was."

A smile of disbelief clouded Sammy's face, his brows furrowing as he stared at his older brother. Dean shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A part of him wished Carmen was there, because he knew barely anything about himself and his little brother knew everything. Clearing his throat, Dean forced a smile on his face.

"So, this isn't awkward at all."

"What exactly do you remember? Obviously you remember me…" Sammy trailed off.

"Sort of, Sammy. I mean… I knew I had this kid brother that I looked out for. Until earlier tonight, I had no idea what your name was or what you looked like."

"You do know that my name is Sam and not Sammy," he questioned. "You only call me Sammy to piss me off or when you're trying to be…"

"Trying to be what?"

Dean's brow furrowed. He looked at Sammy - no Sam - in confusion. Everything was too confusing and nothing made sense. There was his little brother, telling him that he could only call him Sammy under certain circumstances. Dean had the feeling that the two really didn't use words often to communicate with each other - that they had their own language of smiles, frowns, winks, eye rolls. Expressions of incredulity, mocked seriousness, exasperated head rolls could easily tell what mood the other was in. Sniffs, snorts, gasps, sighs could easily tell a story without any words. Dean didn't know this language anymore. He couldn't decipher what the furrowed brow and frowned dimples meant. He didn't know what his brother was trying to tell him in a single expression, one that he was sure under different circumstances he could easily read.

"You know," Sam responded as he forced the corners of his mouth up for only couple of seconds before the frown set in again.

A part of Dean wanted to scream at him, tell him that he _didn't know_, that he had no idea what his brother was trying to tell him, ask him. Sam had a pleading look on his face that Dean couldn't read no matter how hard he tried. The mystery to his brother's expressions and actions were locked away, and the kid didn't seem to be understanding any of that because his simplistic response of _you know_ indicated that Dean actually did know, which he didn't.

"You remember hunting?" There was a note of what Dean thought was disappointment in Sam's tone.

"If you call me being paranoid by laying salt lines and sleeping with a silver butter knife under my pillow, then yeah I guess I do remember," he tried to keep the air light. "So demons and ghosts and crap… they're real? I gotta tell you, Sammy, that I swore I was seriously suffering from post-traumatic stress or something."

"Yeah, they're real. We hunt them, Dean. It's our job: hunting things, saving people… the family business."

"The family business, huh? Freakin' awesome. Look, Sammy, what exactly is our family name?"

"You mean like surname?" Dean nodded. "Winchester. You're Dean Jonathan Winchester. You're twenty-eights years old. I'm Samuel Thomas Winchester. I'm twenty-four years old. Dad was John, and Mom was Mary. Mom died when you were four, and I was six months. A demon killed her, Dean. Dad went… off the deep end. He got caught up in hunting the supernatural, finding Mom's killer. Dad died a year ago."

"How'd he die?"

"Uh… the demon that killed Mom got him."

"We ever find that son-of-a-bitch?"

"Yeah, Dean, you killed it. Dad would have been…" Sam trailed off, but that time Dean thought he knew what the trailed off word was.

Running a hand over his face, Dean let out a low chuckle. He was partly relieved that he wasn't some crazy loon who had an unhealthy obsession with salt and knives. Another part of him didn't want any of that to be true because what kind of life would that be for his kid to grow up in? Swallowing hard, he thought about Carmen and the baby. His stomach twisted itself up into knots at the very thought of them. Carmen was taking his behavior surprisingly well. What would happen when she found out that he wasn't suffering from stress like she thought? Would she leave him? Would he ever get the chance to see his kid?

"I was looking for you, Dean. At first, I thought you were pissed at me because of this hunt we did in Kentucky. Then when you didn't call in a week, wouldn't answer my calls, I went stir crazy. I called Bobby up… contacted Ellen and Jo. Tried to find someone who could have seen you or knew where you went."

"What happened during the Kentucky hunt?"

"Nothing. Come on, Dude, let's not stir up old disagreements. It was just one of our stupid fights."

"It's good to see you awake," a familiar female voice rang.

Dean turned around to see Carmen walking in with her scrubs on. She smiled at him before going to grab his chart from the end of his brother's bed. Dean got up from the chair and walked over towards Carmen, peering over her shoulder at the chart in her hand. She shot him an annoyed look before glancing back at the task at hand.

"Is he good? When can he be released?" he asked.

"Um… his levels are pretty normal. Blood pressure is a tad bit high… but something tells me that's hereditary."

"My blood pressure was a little high too?"

"No, your blood pressure was through the roof when you arrived. I'd wager that yours is natural high," she told him with a smirk. "You're always so uptight though."

"Are not," he countered. "When can he be released?"

"I'm not his doctor, Dean. Hell, I'm _not _a doctor."

She deposited the chart back on the foot of the bed before turning towards Dean. Her arms crossed over her chest, a frown playing on her lips. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he felt a gentle hand touch his shoulder. Carmen squeezed and immediately he seemed to relax. He didn't want her to leave him alone with Sam, whose eyes he could feel burning into the back of his head. Turning to face his brother, Dean was confused by the look the kid was giving him. It was a mixture of disbelief, annoyance, confusion, and happiness all rolled up into one.

"Carmen, this is my little brother Sam. Sammy, this is my girlfriend Carmen."

While Carmen greeted him, Sam just stared at the girl before his eyes shifted to his brother. His eyebrows raised on his forehead, his mouth hanging open. It was as though Sam wanted Dean to say something, explain why he'd have a girlfriend. Dean looked at his brother oddly, trying to figure out the sudden shift in the kid's behavior. Carmen looked up at him as she grabbed his hand into hers.

"Seriously?" Sam finally asked.

"What? I've never had a girlfriend before? I mean, you know, it seemed what like I knew what I was doing in the-"

"Oh, God, Dean, shut up. I hate it when you talk about your sex escapades like you're doing me a favor or something."

"So I have sex escapades? I always knew I had a kinky side," Dean said with a smirk.

"Um, I don't want to break up the friendly brother banter, but I talked to Bobby. He's going to take your things from the motel, Sam, and take them to our house. You're more than welcomed to stay with us." She turned to the older brother. "Doctor Jude is going to be in soon to give him a quick glance over before releasing him. I have to work so don't worry about me."

Carmen rose on her tiptoes to quickly peck a kiss on his lips before leaving the room. Dean turned to his brother and was more than a little puzzled by the kid's expression. Sitting down in his chair, Dean decided if his brother wanted a staring competition then he'd give him one. Neither spoke to one another, but instead let the new buckets of information seep into them.

Doctor Jude arrived, checking over Sam quickly just as Carmen said he would. Giving the kid a full bill of health, Sam signed the discharge papers with ease. It seemed like it was an action the kid was all too familiar with, an action where Sam didn't even have to look at the papers as he signed almost mechanically. As Dean led his brother to the parking garage, fiddling with the keys in his hand, he couldn't help but think that Sammy really wasn't a kid. Sure, when he looked at him, Dean only saw a tiny toddler with dark curly hair asking him questions. That didn't mean that this giant was still a kid, but in his mind Sammy was a kid.

"Where's the Impala?" asked Sam. "What's this?"

Dean stopped next to the '94 Impala, a frown etched on his face. He shook his head before hauling his body into the car, reaching over to unlock the passenger's side. Sam got in the car, looking around in confusion. Reaching under the seat, the kid slid the seat back as far as it could go because Carmen had the seat pulled up as far as it would go.

"I got it towed back to my place," Dean said indifferently as he started the engine. "I didn't have the keys to drive it."

"When has that ever stopped you before?"

"You're right. I _do_ work at a garage. I probably know how to hotwire if I know how to fix engines and crap."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched as Sam gave him a suspicious look. His head shook, the kid's brown hair sloshing back and forth. He definitely needed a haircut. The Winchester brothers rode in silence, Sammy looking out the window as though he were looking for something. Several months ago, Dean was sure he would immediately understand what his brother was looking for. Then again, times changed and Sammy's actions were lost to him.

Pulling into the driveway, Dean turned his head to look at his brother as he cut the engine. The kid's eyes glanced at the Impala before looking up at the small house. Clearing his throat, Dean got out of the car and slammed the door loudly. Sammy seemed to jump out of his reverie as he hauled his tall frame out of the small car. The kid turned his attention to his brother, a doubtful look clouding his features.

"I must be dreaming," he muttered while Dean made his way to stand next to the kid. "You have a house."

"Actually, it's Carmen's house. I've just been staying here seeing as I'm an awesome boyfriend," Dean replied as he clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder.

Dean walked towards the front door, listening careful to make sure Sam was right behind him. The knots in his chest loosened ever so slightly when he heard his brother's footfalls. Unlocking the front door, Dean stepped cautiously over the salt line into the mix-matched house. Turning around, he watched as Sammy smiled with a shake of the head as he too stepped over the salt lines.

"Trust you to not remember my name but know how to protect yourself."

"It was instinct," Dean defended his actions. "You had them all over your motel room."

"Yeah, Dean, I did." Sam's smile dropped. "I knew what was after me. You didn't."

"What was after you?"

"The new and improved Yellow Eyed Demon… I think."

"Right."

"It doesn't really make sense," Sam started to say as he made his way towards the comfy green couch. "What is the point of swiping your memory? To distract us maybe? So that he can put his plans into action? He's after me. I know that much. I'm not exactly sure why."

Dean listened to his brother talk mostly to himself, a look of concentration dancing on the kid's voice. He sat down in the fuzzy orange chair, leaning back to watch Sammy contemplate what the hell was going on. Dean figured it be best if he left the thinking to Geek Boy who still, luckily, had his memory in tact.

"Why's he after you?" asked Dean.

"I'm a psychic," he explained. "I have death visions."

There was a small, teeny tiny piece of Dean that wanted to burst out laughing at the very thought of Sammy being some sort of psychic. Images of the little boy running around in ThunderCats pajamas sprung to mind - a kid who was more concerned in watching his favorite television show than bending spoons. The more rational part of Dean, however, ached at the thought of Sammy's weird psychic visions bringing them more grief from demons.

"The last Yellowed Eyed Demon… he got all of us psychics together. It was sort of survival of the fittest. The winner got to lead a demon army."

"A demon army? I thought ghosts and demons made me sound like I belonged in a padded room, but the thought of a demon army," Dean whistled, "that's a whole new bucket of crazy."

"Dean, please be serious."

"Gotcha, Sammy."

"This kid named Jake won. He…" The kid forced himself to look away, unable to meet his brother's gaze. "He killed me. You made a deal with a Crossroads Demon. Your life for mine."

"I'm alive though."

Dean's heart was pounding in his chest, flashes of a woman with brown hair in a black dress crossed his mind. He could hear her callous words vibrating in his mind. _Make sure you bury Sam before he starts stinking up the joint._ Burying his head in his hands, the memories of making a deal with a demon filled his mind. The exact terms of the deal were hazy, but he knew that they weren't good.

"You have a year," Sam choked out.

A year to live. No, less than a year. He didn't know exactly how long ago he made the deal, but he knew he had to get out of it. He had a life now… a wife and a child on the way. He had a brother who needed him. It felt, for the first time in his life, that he was happy. The dull ache in his heart was growing, suffocating him. He couldn't leave. Not now. Not soon.

"Dean… talk to me."

He couldn't talk. He had nothing to say. Sammy was the most important person in his life. He knew that. His whole life, his whole purpose for living, was always to protect his younger brother. Now, Dean had more responsibilities than just his brother's well being. He had duties to his child - a small child that would never know who his father was unless he fought the deal. In the pit of his stomach, he knew that he couldn't weasel out of the deal without the demise of his younger brother that he tried so hard to protect all of his life.

"I promise to get you out of this. We have until June."

June seemed too close though. There was no way for him to get out of the deal. He knew, given the chance, he would make the deal all over again. He would have done it all over again, if he hadn't lost his memory, he would have never gotten Carmen pregnant - to leave her the sole responsibility of a child that he couldn't protect from the supernatural as his father did before him.

"We have a hitchhiking son-of-a-bitch to take care of," was all Dean could manage to say.

"Dean…?"

"Later. We'll discuss this later. Right now, people are disappearing. We need to help them. It's our job… right?"

Looking up, Dean looked over at his little brother who numbly nodded his head. He stood up, his joints cracking. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were pulled tight, tension covering his body. He vaguely wondered how one would kill a hitchhiking ghost but decided to leave Sammy to deal with the details. Dean just wanted to kill something.

* * *

I'm sorry it took so long to update. My cat got very sick, and we ended up having to put him down. So I wasn't in high spirits to write. Anyways here is the latest chapter, that took so long to write and with which I'm only about seventy percent happy with. Also, please excuse the many grammar mistakes, as I didn't revise it. I knew you were all anxious to read, so I figured you wouldn't mind the mistakes. I shall fix the mistakes later, most likely this weekend. I just didn't want anyone to think I abandoned this story or anything. Anyways, this weekend, I'm hoping to get out another part of the 'Dark Horse' series. After this story is finished, I will begin to write chaptered stories for the series instead of just one-shots. Anyways, do please review this chapter and cheer me up a bit.


	7. A Leopard's Spots

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Seven: A Leopard's Spots"**

Perhaps going out at the dead of night to hunt for a homicidal ghost with a younger brother who just got out of the hospital wasn't the brightest idea in the world. Sammy though, dead set on killing the son-of-a-bitch just as much as Dean, wasn't even fazed by the fact that pain medication was still flowing through his veins or that his older brother wasn't exactly up to par with his Ghostbusting side quite yet. So when Dean found himself lying on the ground, the coppery taste of blood dancing on his taste buds after being thrown a good five to ten feet, he found that Sam was a little off put by the whole scenario. It was as though the kid thought that merely because his brother had amnesia that it shouldn't have affected his A-game; however, Dean couldn't quite remember how to take on a hitchhiking ghost whose corpse was already salted and burned.

While Sam frantically searched for what was still holding the ghost to the corporal plane, Dean took the brunt of the attacks the hitcher gave out. Struggling to stand up, he spat out a mixture of blood and dirt as he coaxed the ghost closer to him with his hands. He was fully prepared for the knife in Casper's hand to come flinging towards him and was more than delighted that he still had his reflexes in tact when the blade slashed at his abdomen.

"Is that all you got?" Dean taunted.

Given the fact that when he was hurled by the ghost, the gun filled with rock salt wound up on the ground several feet away, didn't really seem to bother Dean all that much. He was happy to go all gung-ho with mocking the son-of-a-bitch until Sam figured out what the hell they were supposed to be doing. Looking over demented Casper's shoulder, Dean realized for the first time that Sam was down on the ground clenching his head as though someone hit him with something extremely heavy. In a mere second distraction, that gave the hitcher ample time to grab Dean by the throat and hoist him up in the air.

The hand on his neck was icy. The fingers tightened themselves tightly around his neck, slowly cutting off his oxygen supply. Sputtering and gasping for air, Dean kicked his legs wildly in hopes of catching the hitcher's groin. Granted he wasn't quite sure if the ghost could even feel pain in the nads or not, it was the best he could do with Sammy down. He soon found that he couldn't function his legs willingly any longer, his muscles jerking on their own accord. His head was spinning, black dots swarming in front of his eyes. He couldn't think properly, his mind a pile of mush that it wasn't able to put two and two together.

A loud _BANG!_ rang out in the night sky, the grip on his neck loosened. Dean fell into a heap on the ground, gulping in the chilly night air while thinking frantically that his lungs might have collapsed or something serious like that. Squinting through unwanted tears, a blurry Sam stood slightly hunched over with a shotgun cocked in his arms. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Dean saw a clearer version of his brother panting heavily with beats of sweat sliding down his face.

"Sammy?" He hated that his voice cracked. Damn hitcher.

He stood up on shaky legs, his head darting from left to right to try to find the hitcher which was nowhere to be seen. A pain shot through his left leg causing him to limp as he walked towards his little brother who was obviously shaken about something. Once directly in front of the kid, Dean reached out a hand and rested it on Sam's shoulder. Squeezing gently, the tension in his brother's face eased up instantly at the small bout of physical comfort.

"You… you let Casper get the drop on you," Sammy said in a smart-alecky tone with a goofy grin plastered on his wet face.

"Takes one to know one," he snapped back. "At least you don't see me being rushed to the hospital."

"He cut up my neck," the kid defended himself. "You just got choked."

Dean nodded dumbly, his hand leaving Sam's shoulder to gingerly rub his sore neck. He was sure there would be bruises in the morning because of the freakin' death grip the ghost had him in. He watched his brother wipe the sweat off his brow with a frown.

"You okay, Dude? You were clenching your head like a pansy while I was being choked to death."

"Just a vision," he replied as he shifted.

"One of those death visions you were telling me about earlier?"

"Yeah… I've been getting them a lot lately." Sam cleared his throat as he adjusted the shotgun in his arms. "Let's get back to the car. I want to talk to Bobby about this spirit and see what he thinks. Any idea where we parked?"

In their eagerness to shoot something, the brothers chased the hitcher off the highway for a good twenty minutes. Sam figured it probably not only haunted the highway but the surrounding area which proved to be a pain in the ass. Dean sighed heavily at the prospect of walking until they found the highway again and then meandering down the stretch of road until they found the Impala with his leg throbbing the way it was.

"You find the car and then come find me," Dean suggested with a grin.

Sam shook his head, his wet locks splashing spots of water on Dean's face. Grimacing in disgust, he pushed his younger brother lightly away from him while biting back a sarcastic comment. Dean walked over to his discarded shotgun and picked it up, using it as makeshift cane to help him walk.

The brothers walked in silence towards the car, listening for any indication that the spirit wouldn't pop out of nowhere and get the drop on them… _again_. A good forty-five minutes later, without any Casper sightings, the two found the Impala parked on the side of the highway. Sighing in relief, Dean headed directly for the driver's side without even bothering putting his shotgun away in the trunk. He threw the gun in the backseat and started the engine.

By the time they arrived back at Carmen's house, the front lights were on in an almost ominous way. Dean was the first one out of the car, walking towards the house. He didn't quite understand if the clenching in his heart was because of Carmen and the baby or something utterly different. Either way, he wished that on some level the Winchester men weren't supernatural hunters. It would make his decisions so much easier.Upon walking into the house, Carmen was up talking to Bobby. The older hunter glared at the two brothers as they walked in the door.

"You stupid asses," Bobby commented. "You idiots."

"Bobby…" Sam trailed off.

"We talked about this, Sam! You can't go hunting by yourself until you get these visions under control."

"I had Dean with me!"

"Yeah, he looks like he had a time in the park," he muttered.

"What happened?" Carmen questioned as she stared at Dean.

He shook his head, making his way towards the couch to sit next to Carmen. Leaning back into the suede cushion, Dean closed his eyes tightly trying to figure out where their lives went to wrong but drew a blank because he still couldn't remember his life. He wanted the wall around his mind to come crumpling down. The thought that being with Sammy, spending quality time with him, would help him regain his memory. It was beyond disappointing and frustrating. He could feel Carmen's light touch on his neck, fingering the bruises. The small touch immediately calmed him.

"You had one didn't you?" Bobby questioned. "What happened this time?"

"Leave it," Sam snapped. "Just leave it."

"They should be getting better with the demon gone, not worse. Your connection was with-"

"Please, Bobby, leave it alone."

Dean quirked open an eye, glancing over at Bobby and Sam. The kid looked sick, his face ghastly pale. Bobby looked angry, his eyes burning into the younger hunter with what looked like shame. He tore his eyes away from his old life and to his new life. Carmen was curled up next to him, her fingers still delicately rubbing his neck. It still amazed him that she was still there, still allowing him to be in her house after everything. He was shocked that she hadn't called the cops or the local asylum yet.

"I'm going to bed," she whispered so only he could hear. "I think you three need to have a long talk."

"Bobby tell you anything?"

"Oh, he told me lots of things." She smiled impishly. "He sort had to before I'd allow him to carve up my doors and draw on my windows."

"Not running then?"

"Not yet." She leaned in and brushed her lips against his. "It'll take a lot more for me to run away from someone with an ass like yours."

Unfolding her legs beneath her, she got up and walked towards the stairs. A part of Dean felt empty; a longing filled him for her to stay. He wanted her to hear everything about his old life, experience it with him. Dragging his gaze to the hunters, he swallowed hard. It was now or never to find out what exactly was going on, what he couldn't remember.

"I want to know everything," Dean told them. "I need to know everything. I know you're keeping stuff from me, Sammy. How the hell am I ever going to get my memory back if you're lying to me? I mean, come on. I have less than a year to regain my memories."

The joke fell flat as Bobby looked more enraged and Sam looking guilty as sin. Sammy walked over towards Dean, sitting in the chair across from his brother while Bobby remained standing with his arms folded across his chest.

"I never told you this," Sam spoke softly. "I told you how the demon got a whole bunch of us psychics together and winner got to lead the demon army. What I didn't tell you after I died… after you saved me. The demon came to me, Dean, in my dreams while I was with the other psychics. He showed me the night Mom died. The demon came to see me that night, when I was just a baby. He cut himself, dripping his blood into me. I think that's why I have visions. I'm part demon or something like that."

"We don't know that," Bobby interrupted. "A few drops of demon blood couldn't possibly make you half demon. It was just enough to give you an ability, that's all."

"Anyways, Mom interrupted him. Mom… she knew the demon. Then she was murdered. The fire started. Dad gave me to you and told you to get out of the house as fast as you can. You did. Dad followed after he couldn't save Mom."

"Our mom knew the demon?" Dean questioned. "So what? She was a psychic like you?"

"That's my guess."

"These visions… you get them often then?"

"No. Well… I didn't before when they first started. After we killed the demon and the next in command stepped up… I've been getting them frequently. The new demon, he's killing off all the psychics. Murdering them one by one. Older generations, younger generations. They're all dying, and I'm watching it happen."

"I'm thinking that the demons wanted you out of the picture, Dean," Bobby joined in. "They know you'd protect Sam at all costs, and they couldn't get to him with you around. Therefore, I think that they erased your memory and set you up with a new life so they could easily kill Sam."

"I don't think they anticipated that I'd catch on or that I'd get help from another hunter."

"It was just pure luck we even came here," Bobby commented as he readjusted his baseball cap. "Heard about Missouri Mosely dying so I told Sam we should come check it out. That's when we caught whiff of the hitcher on the highway and decided to finish it off before leaving."

"I went to see her," Dean whispered. "I found her house on accident and heard she died."

"Dad knew her. She was the one who told Dad all about hunting, got him into the gig after Mom died. We met up with her again a couple years back, because this poltergeist was in our old house."

"How did she die?"

"It would make sense that the demon got her," said Bobby. "They wanted to stash you away in Lawrence knowing it would be the last place anyone would look for you. Except, Missouri was here and would sense your presence, so they had to get rid of her before she blew the cover they made for you."

"You really think that's what happened?" Sam questioned.

"It's my theory at least."

Dean shut his eyes tightly. The very thought of someone dying because of him was like a hot knife in his chest. The responsibility weighed heavily on him. He looked at Sam who had a look of pity etched on his face. It only then occurred to Dean that Sam felt as guilty as he did about the whole situation.

"That everything?"

"For now," Bobby said. "We need to get some rest."

"I gotta confess something," Dean spoke as though he didn't hear Bobby. "Carmen… she's pregnant, and I don't know if can just leave my child to go hunting because I don't have that much time to be with him or her before I hit… hit the bucket."

The look on Sam's face would have been priceless to Dean if the situation wasn't so serious. The kid's jaw dropped and his brows furrowed. The momentary look of shock on Sam's face shifted quickly, turning into one of guilt and sadness. He looked about ready to cry, tears clouding his hazel eyes.

"Dean…" his voice cracked.

"Don't, Sammy. It's fine. I'd give up my life again for you in a heartbeat, you know. You're my brother, and that's what big brothers do." Dean sniffed as he fought back his emotions. "My kid though… gonna be loved. Carmen is so excited, so happy. Plus, this kid is going to have a kick ass uncle, am I right?"

Tears were pouring down Sammy's face as he stared at his brother. Dean looked away not being able to meet the kid's gaze. He knew that if he watched his little brother crying much longer, he would sure start to cry. Dean wasn't one to do the whole tears scene. That was all Sammy's thing.

"Just don't tell Carmen I have a death date, all right?"

"I promise you, Dean, I'm gonna save you."

"I don't doubt that, Sammy," he whispered as he stood up. "I'm hitting the sack. We'll deal with the hitcher tomorrow."

Making his way up the stairs, Dean tried not to think of Sammy and the guilt he felt. He knew, deep down inside, that he would do the whole thing all over again if he had the choice. As soon as he remembered Sam, he knew the kid meant more to him than anyone else. He knew that he'd do anything for the kid, always had. Even though he couldn't remember details or specifics, he knew that he had always been there for Sammy and always would be.

Walking into the bedroom, he saw Carmen was still up. She had been waiting for him and that small thought made Dean's heart burst. A smile tugged on his lips as he closed the bedroom door and ambled over towards the bed. Sliding into bed next to her, he pulled her small body towards his. Her head rested comfortably on his chest, her hand running up his shirt and resting on his bare stomach. With Carmen, everything felt so right. He was convinced that he never felt this way with anyone but her and didn't want to know any differently.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

"Good. I found out some more about my life."

Her head turned so that she could look at him, her chin resting in the crook of his shoulder. The moonlight from the window lit up around her, making her look angelic. Dean swallowed hard, emotions crashing into him as he looked at her. He couldn't help but think what would happen when he was dead, when he paid his due to save his kid brother. Would she miss him? Would she tell their kid everything about him? Or would she be happy not to have a guy who hunted ghosts and demons with his little brother out of her and her son's life? Would she be happy to have a normal life once more?

"I told Bobby he could sleep on the couch if he wanted to," she commented. "Sam has your old room."

"You didn't have to take them in."

"I'm a sucker for lost puppies," she responded.

"Thanks."

"They're your family, Dean. How could I let them stay at that rundown shithole?"

Dean merely forced a smile on his face as his grip tightened around her. A couple weeks ago, he couldn't understand how he could be so lucky and catch a girl like Carmen. Now all he could think was he only got _the girl_ because his life was going to end in less than a year. How cruel was that?

"You know what I was thinking?" she asked him as she leaned up to kiss him on the chin and then trailing the kisses back to his ear.

"Hmm?"

"Once you and Sam are done with this highway thing, maybe I could invite my family over for dinner. That way they could meet you and Sam and even Bobby if you want." She nipped his ear with her teeth. "Then we could tell them about the baby."

"Yeah… that sounds great. Whatever you want, Carmen."

She sat up, swinging a leg over Dean so that she was straddling him. Her hands rested on his chest before sliding up to squeeze his shoulders. Leaning forward, her hair cascaded down around her face. The tips of her hair gently tickled the lower part of his face.

"Did you tell Sam about the baby?"

"Yeah… just five minutes ago actually."

"He happy?"

"Ecstatic. He's going to be a great uncle to the kid."

"Somehow, I don't doubt that," she whispered. "He seems like a great guy."

Reaching a hand up, he grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her down into a kiss. She drew down close to him as he rolled her over onto her back. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and Dean took the pleasure in forgetting about dying, demons, ghosts, and everything else that was going wrong in his life. He just wanted to be with Carmen and forget about the world for the night.

* * *

I hope that you enjoyed the new installment. I'm slightly disappointed by the lack of reviews. I don't quite understand why some stories get more than others. The last chapter got over 400 hits but yet I only got 7 reviews. That upsets me. So do drop a review and tell me what you think - they do help me update faster and make my day a little brighter. 


	8. One Swallow Doesn't Make a Summer

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Eight: One Swallow Doesn't Make a Summer"**

There was no weight on his chest like usual. Dean cracked an eye open to see that Carmen wasn't anywhere to be seen. Getting out of bed, he grabbed his clothes from the floor and slipped them on. The clock on the nightstand blinked 8:45, and Dean silently hoped that Carmen hadn't left for work yet. Walking quietly down the stairs, he instantly saw Bobby lounged on the couch with his hat covering his face and arms crossed over his chest.

A clank could be heard from the kitchen followed by a soft, _'Shit!'_ Making his way into the kitchen, he saw Carmen standing by the stove with a pan of burnt eggs spilled over the tiled floor. A smile tugged on his lips as he sauntered towards the mess. She looked up to return a weak smile as she gestured to the floor. Leaning forward, he pecked her on the cheek.

"I was going to make breakfast for everyone," she told him softly. "Guess that was a big mistake."

"Don't worry about it."

"I just… wanted to be more motherly," she replied with a grimace.

Forcing a smile onto his face, Dean grabbed a towel and started to clean up the bits of egg on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Carmen walk towards the cupboard and look for something easy to make for breakfast. Dropping the remnants of their supposed breakfast, Dean felt his heart beat heavily in his chest.

"Hey, Carmen," he started, "I've been thinking."

"About what?"

She turned around with a frosted flakes box clenched in her hands. He looked at her, swallowing the hard lump in his throat. Less than a year, that's all he has and he was determined to make the best of it.

"Call your parents. Invite them down for dinner tomorrow."

"What about your and Sam's…" she trailed off, her nose scrunching up.

"Life is short, Carmen. We gotta live in the now because who knows what could happen."

"Dean, what's going on? You're scaring me."

"All I'm saying is that I'm a ghost busting amnesiac," he said as she let out a chuckle, "so some ghost could get the drop on me again, and I might not be so lucky one of these times."

"You do know that sounds certifiable."

Dean smiled softly as he nodded his head. He was sure that he was coping with the whole situation incredibly well. Perhaps his cool, collective, nonchalant behavior was also why Carmen was taking the whole thing like a real trooper. Dean was certain on some level that Carmen had some sort of experience in the past with the supernatural to make her so accepting of him playing the role of ghost buster.

"I'll call them today," she commented. "You know, most guys run the other way when I suggest a meet the parents get together."

"Well, you're not dating a pansy ass." He forced a smile. "I'm going to wake Sammy up."

"The Spengler to your Venkman

Making his way to the guest bedroom, Dean was ninety-five percent positive he never met any girl's parents before. Hell, he had no freakin' idea what do even say to them. _Hi, I'm the guy who got your daughter pregnant, but I can't marry her because I forgot my due comes in less than a year._ That didn't sound padded room crazy at all.

"Morning, Sunshine," Dean greeted as he opened the door to the room Sam was sleeping in.

The kid was sitting up in bed with his knees drawn to his chest. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His chest was heaving, his breath echoing in Dean's ears. A parental feeling immediately kicked in. In his mind, he could picture as clear as day a small boy with curly brown hair who had just fallen off his bike. Tears streaming down his face, his jeans ripped open at the knee. Blood spilling out, soaking the denim. Dean saw himself knelt down next to the kid who latched onto the older boy with a death grip as he buried his face into the folds of his brother's shirt.

_"You promised,"_ the small boy whispered shakily in his mind. _"You promised not to let go. You let go, Dean, you let go."_

"Dude, you okay?" Dean's voice quivered slightly.

He darted towards the bed, sitting down on the edge. He no longer saw his twenty-something year old brother but rather the tiny boy who put so much trust in him, something he was sure he did quite often. The kid he let down by letting go of the bike. Instantly, his hand shot out to push his brother's drenched locks out of his face. Sam glanced at Dean, his brows burrowing. Once upon a time, Dean would have understood the look and could probably have some sort of smartass comment to make.

"Just… another psychic…"

"Bit the dust?" he inquired as Sam scoffed with a smirk.

"I guess some things never change."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You lack tact with or without amnesia."

The smile on Sam's face dropped as a look of pity crossed his features. Dean held in a groan. He hated the sad puppy dog eyes that Sammy would send his way whenever the kid felt like he let Dean down somehow. Dean swallowed hard as his hand fell limply onto the bed.

"Sammy," he spoke slowly, "I know I'm not the brother you remember, but I'm still your brother… you know?"

"Dean?"

"I promise you that this demon or whatever isn't going to get you, and I'm going to find a way to stop these freaky psychic visions of yours."

"I know all this, Dean."

"I won't let go this time. I promise not to let go."

Sam let out a puff of air, a frown etched on his face. Dean had no idea if Sammy remembered the time he let go of the bike, but something in the way the tears sprung to his eyes… Dean was sure his brother did remember. Clearing his throat, forcing back his own tears that tickled his eyes, the older Winchester tapped the younger one on the thigh before getting off the bed.

"Carmen's getting breakfast together. I'll see you downstairs and then we can find a way to get rid of the hitcher, okay?"

"That sounds great."

Dean dared a glance at the kid one last time before walking out of the door, closing the door behind him. Leaning up against the wood, he let out a sigh as he felt the tears trickle down his face. How could he make a promise to Sammy he couldn't keep? Once it came time to punch in his soul, he would have to let the bike go spiraling out of control, and Sammy would crash onto the pavement. When that time came, there would be no Dean to hug his brother, say meaningless apologies, kiss the grazed knees better, and pick the kid back up again. Sam would have to make the feat by himself, and Dean wasn't ready to let go… to allow the kid to be on his own.

After breakfast, Carmen kissed his cheek before going to work. Dean, Sam, and Bobby sat at the kitchen table with dirty plates and stained coffee mugs. He fiddled with his mug, swirling around the last bit of blackness as his mind wandered to his impending death. Would Sammy stay with Carmen and help raise the kid or would she be on her own? A chair squeaked on the tiled floor causing Dean to look up. Bobby leaned back in his chair, a hand adjusting the baseball cap on his head. Dean wondered if he ever took the thing off.

"I've been thinking," he started, "and I think I know what's keeping the hitcher on the corporeal level."

"What?" Sammy beat Dean to the million dollar question.

"This hitcher… I'm thinking he was a killer in real life - a real psychopath. The knife he's been waving around at us… I think we need to destroy that."

"What?" Dean questioned. "Joe Regular Hitchhiking Extraordinaire isn't crossing over because his knife is still with him?"

"Crossing over?" asked Sam with a smile on his face. "We're not John Edward, Dean."

"So tonight we're just going to get the drop on Crazy Casper, steal his knife, and torch it? Then what? Casper sees the light?" he asked as he ignored the younger hunter.

"Something like that," Bobby said gruffly.

That night, Dean loaded a shotgun with rock salt. A part of him felt like he was getting the hang of the whole supernatural hunter business but another part didn't want to get too familiar with it. Glancing up in the darkness, he watched as Bobby and Sammy armed themselves as well. This was it. He was going to kill his first ghost - well, his first ghost that he could remember. Excitement raced through his veins, a small peak of hope building up inside of him.

The three hunters walked off the highway towards the area where Sam and Dean were the night before. Bobby held some sort of device in his hand with tiny light bulbs on the top. They walked farther into the darkness, following Sam's little ball of light from his flashlight. Suddenly, there was a whining sound as Dean looked over to see Bobby's thingamabob going off like crazy, red beams glowing in the darkness.

"He's here," Bobby announced. "You know the plan."

Dean was about to protest, remind him that they really didn't have a plan but thought better of it. Cocking his shotgun, Dean looked around the area for any sign of the hitcher. The air grew cold almost instantly. Opening his mouth, he saw his breath frosty in front of him. Casper really was somewhere near. By the time he saw the bastard's face, it was too late. The gun was knocked out of his hands. An icy hand grabbed a fistful of his leather jacket, and he soared backwards.

_BANG!_

"Dean!" Bobby shouted.

Scrambling up onto his elbows, he watched as Sam looked around frantically for the hitcher. Bobby, on the other hand, stared at Dean like he couldn't believe the ghost got the drop on him. Grumbling, he stood up and made a reach for his shotgun when he saw the fugly thing out of the corner of his eye. Something inside of him said to just tackle the hitcher without a gun, so without thinking, Dean darted towards the ghost like a linebacker. He and the hitcher slammed down into the hard ground, the knife grazing him right above his elbow. The funny thing was that Dean wasn't even upset about the gash in his arm. He was more upset that the hitcher ruined his jacket.

"Dean!" screamed Sam.

"You stupid ass!" Bobby joined in.

Dean reached for the hitcher's wrist with his good arm, smacking it down into the ground. The hitcher didn't seem fazed at all. Then before he knew it, Dean was flipped onto the ground and the hitcher was above him with the knife pointing menacingly down upon him. The only thing he could think was _shit_ and the other thing he could do was stare in bewilderment on how the ghost got the drop on him again. Another _BANG!_ rang out and the ghost dissipated in front of his eyes.

"What the hell were you thinking?" shouted Sam.

A hang shot out in front of Dean, and he took it automatically. He didn't know what exactly he was thinking. It seemed like a great idea at the time. Applying pressure to the wound, he glanced around to any sign of Spooky.

"Dude, I so just wrestled Casper," he responded with a smirk.

"Yeah, that's great, Christina Ricci," retorted Sam.

"At least I'm not being driven to the hospital right now like a wuss, Samantha."

"You're an ass, Dean, you know that?"

"I try my best."

"You boys are killin' me," Bobby interrupted. "Can we just get the knife and be done with this?"

Dean turned towards the older hunter and nodded, a smirk still dancing on his face. This seemed familiar: hunting some ghost and teasing his little brother. He could get used to this. Walking over towards his discarded shotgun, he picked it up to cock it. Something told him that they never went into battle without a plan based upon the weary look Sammy plastered across his face. Bobby, on the other hand, seemed like one of those guys who would figure something out impromptu.

"We need a plan," Sam stated.

"We have a plan," Bobby replied.

"The whole 'grab the knife' isn't really a plan, Bobby," he argued.

"The hitcher seems to be getting friendly with Dean, so you're bait."

Sammy didn't seem too thrilled about the prospect of the older hunter's plan but went along with it. Dean didn't care in all honesty. He wanted to get that _sonofabitch_ and be done with the whole thing. Sammy and Bobby disappeared, leaving Dean out in the open by himself without a gun. He did, however, have a few packets of salt tucked away in his jeans pocket as it was a habit he could not shake. Briefly, he wondered if it was a habit he'd had his whole life or if it was merely something he picked up after his memory was swiped.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, fingering the salt packets, as he looked around for the hitcher. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something flicker. Whipping his head around, he saw the ghost gliding towards him with the knife stretched out in front of him.

"You're mine," a low gurgling escaped the hitcher's lips as blood spurted out of his neck.

"Bring it," replied Dean with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

The ghost made its way towards the unmoving hunter. Its hand drew back to slash the knife when a loud _BANG!_ sounded. The rock salt hit the knife, knocking it out of the hitcher's hand. Dean stooped down quickly to grab it before running off towards the Impala.

"I got it!" he screamed as he heard another _BANG!_

He could hear two sets of footfalls behind him, so he continued to run towards the Impala. After several minutes, Dean could see the car gleaming on the side of the highway. He slowed down ever so slightly, the tightness in his chest lifting a little bit. Turning around, he saw Sammy not far behind. He was panting heavily as he wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead. Bobby was nowhere to be seen.

Opening the trunk, Dean pulled out some gasoline. He tossed the knife on the ground before dousing the thing with the liquid. Sam reached into his pocket to pull out a Zippo. Lighting it, he tossed it on the ground. The knife exploded into flames and ever so slowly started to melt the metal after several minutes. Bobby appeared out of breath, clenching his side. His eyes flicked down to the knife.

"You should really workout, Old Man," Dean told him, "because you can't keep up with us young, handsome men."

"We come back tomorrow to make sure it's gone," was all Bobby said.

The three hunters got into the Impala, Dean driving. He barely paid attention to the road as he went. His mind was wandering, thinking about a hundred different things. Killing the hitcher wasn't what he'd imagined it to be, what he thought he'd feel. There was a part of him that thought if he did the simple action of killing something supernatural that thousands of pre-amnesia memories would come flooding back to him. He was almost certain that the key would find the lock in his brain. Then again, nothing could be that easy for a Winchester.

If the amnesia was demon related, then Dean knew there had to be an answer written down somewhere on how to regain his memories. Glancing over at Sammy riding shotgun, he watched the kid starting out the window at Lawrence's scenery. Dean wondered if his brother was thinking the same thing he was. Supernatural amnesia… it was almost laughable.

Dean slammed on the brakes, a car honking loudly behind him. A thought suddenly occurred to him. It was as though a switch turned on to reveal some of his brilliance from his life before. He knew how to get his memory back. He didn't know the mechanics of how it worked, but he was positive he found a way.

"Dean?" questioned Sammy whose hands were on the dashboard.

"How do you summon a demon?" he responded as he looked over at his little brother.

Sammy stared at him, his brow furrowed and mouth opened wide. Dean didn't have the patience to sugarcoat the whole thing. He needed answers for his plan to work. Although, part of him was pessimistic about the whole thing - nearly positive that it wouldn't work. Then again, his unconscious mind found comfort in salt and silver to protect him. He knew it was slim, but there was a possibility that he could be right about this just like he was right about the salt.

* * *

Sorry it took so long to update. I lost Dean's voice in the story so nothing was coming out right. I'm not completely happy with this chapter as Dean was still slightly not himself. I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless and give many encouragements to help Dean come back home. All mistakes are mine since I only briefly read it for errors. I'll fix the grammar mistakes later. I just wanted to post it for you loyal fans. Feedback is welcomed. 


	9. Up the Garden Path

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Nine: Up the Garden Path"**

Dean should have expected to be asked a whole slew of questions after he slammed the breaks down and asked how to summon a demon. Sammy seemed reluctant, adamantly stating that they could figure this out together. Dean, on the other hand, wanted to do this by himself - had to do it by himself. With enough coaxing from Bobby, Sam agreed to prepare his older brother on the ways of summoning a potentially dangerous demon.

He learned of the ritual and what symbols needed to be drawn, which items needed to be present. Bobby showed him a book on how to trap a demon with what was called a Devil's Trap. There was so much information being shoved into his mind that Dean began to think there was no possible way he could remember everything. They formulated a plan, and Dean tried to stay optimistic about the outcome.

Meanwhile, he tried to focus on making a good first impression with Carmen's parents. They lived two counties away just to come to spend the weekend with them. It was agreed upon to give the guest room to the Porters and to banish Sammy to the couch. Carmen began to figure out where to but Bobby when the oldest hunter merely shook his head and said there was work to be done at the salvage yard. Before he left, he had one last talk with the Winchester brothers.

"You two stick together - watch each other's backs. If you need me, I'm only a phone call away."

"Thanks, Bobby, for everything," Sam said gratefully. "I seriously don't think I would have made it on my own."

"Yeah, thanks, for looking out for Sammy," commented Dean as he extended his hand to the older man.

"You Winchesters are a walking billboard for trouble," Bobby said with a smile as he shook Dean's hand. "You take care, Carmen, these boys are nothing but a pain in the neck."

"Oh, Bobby, I feel rather safe with two - whaddya call yourselves? Hunters?" Bobby nodded. "I got two hunters being housed under my roof protecting me so let them be pains in the ass. They'll keep Patrick Swayze's wandering hands off this Demi Moore body."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sammy chuckle while Carmen pulled Bobby into an embrace. The hunter seemed slightly put off by the sudden physical contact but patted her gently on the back before pulling away.

"You're welcome anytime, Bobby," she told him, "and I better see you in the waiting room of the hospital sitting with Sam while I'm shoving a human being out of my body."

With one last goodbye, Bobby took the newer model of the Impala and left for South Dakota. Carmen turned towards the Winchester brothers, a nervous smile crossing her features. Sam gave a soft smile before making his way towards the couch. Dean didn't move from the spot where he stood. Instead, he looked down at Carmen and thought about what would happen if his plan didn't succeed.

"Okay, listen to me. If my mom likes you well enough, she'll ask you to call her Roxanne. If she really likes you, she'll ask you to call her Roxy. My dad's a little tricky. He'll insist you call him Henry if he likes you or not. He has this weird thing about being called Mr. Porter. If my dad asks you if you like the Tennessee Titans, he's trying to decide if he likes you or not based upon your answer. If he asks you if you like football in general, he loves you and you're home free."

"Carmen, would you calm down? If I don't impress them, Sammy will at the very least. He's the ultimate geek boy who's as pure as sugar."

Dean jetted his chin towards Sammy who lounged on the living room couch. The kid sneered slightly as he tried to ignore his older brother. Turning his attention back onto Carmen, Dean mustered up the best reassuring smile he could. A tiny part of him wanted to be accepted by her parents, and he tried to convince himself that it didn't matter. He'd be dead in a couple months anyway.

The thought faltered him immediately. Less than a year. How was he supposed to do everything he wanted to in less than a year? The thought of not being able to watch his child grow up, to leave Carmen a single mom, to leave his baby brother unprotected was almost too much to handle. What was he supposed to do?

"Dean, Sweetie, you okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

A good hour later, the Porters arrived at the house. Roxanne Porter looked exactly like her daughter from the shiny, black hair to the small, petite form. Henry Porter, on the other hand, was a tall, burly man. The scary thing was that the guy was taller than Sammy which was a feat in itself. Looks like Sasquatch has an older brother.

"Mom, Dad, this is Dean Winchester. We've been dating for about a month," Carmen introduced as Mr. Porter took Dean's hand into his. "This is Dean's little brother, Sam."

"Nice to meet you, Sir," greeted Dean with a tight smile.

"Dean Winchester?" Mr. Porter questioned with a confused look etched on his face as he held his hand out for Sam. "Have we met? Your name is just sending bells off in my head."

"Perhaps, Sir, Dean and I have lived basically everywhere. Our dad moved us around a lot," Sam said quickly.

"Military brats?" asked Mrs. Porter.

"Uh, something like that. Yeah."

Dean sat behind the wheel in his '67 Chevy Impala with Sammy riding shotgun. Carmen and her parents sat together in the back. Brownie points were certainly awarded when Mr. Porter let out a low whistle before he got into the car.

"This baby is yours?" he questioned as Dean drove towards the restaurant.

"Yeah, uh, my dad passed it down to me."

Sammy shot him a look as though he couldn't believe he said that. It wasn't until he saw the shocked look did Dean smile despite himself. He unconsciously remembered something. Then a deep voice in his head said, "_I wouldn't have given you the damn thing if I thought you were gonna ruin it."_

As soon as they walked into the restaurant, Dean felt a wave of déjà vu ram into him. The place looked so familiar, but he couldn't place it no matter how hard he tried. Glancing over at Sam, he didn't seem to acknowledge the restaurant at all which unnerved Dean slightly. As they were seated, the fuzzy memory of sitting with two blondes, Carmen, and Sam filled his head. Their orders were glazed over, and Dean couldn't even remember what he ordered.

"What do you do, Dean?" Mr. Porter questioned, breaking him out of his reverie.

"I, uh, work at a garage."

"Good with cars then? You enjoy your work?"

"Yeah, I do."

Dean tried to think when the last time he went to work even was. After everything with the hitcher, Sammy, and the baby, he really hadn't been to work. He assumed he was fired, but he wasn't about to tell the parents of a girl he shacked up that. Instead he forced a smile on his face and tried to pretend work was amazing.

"Our dad," Sammy stated, "was a mechanic. Dean learned everything he knows from him."

Glancing over at his brother, Dean could vaguely see the outline of a man hunched over the hood of the '67 Impala and explaining what various things were called and did. He grabbed his glass of wine and quickly drained half of its contents. Why couldn't there be some sort of distraction? Why couldn't the conversation turn into a different direction? Dean didn't want to be asked any questions he couldn't answer. Hell, he didn't even know if Carmen told her parents if he had amnesia or not.

"So what's the occasion?" Mrs. Porter questioned. "You two must be getting serious if we're meeting the boyfriend since you never introduce us to your boyfriends, Dear."

"Mom, Dad, Dean and I do have something to tell you," said Carmen as she clenched his hand in hers. "We're going to have a baby!"

He watched Mrs. Porter's lit up face drop instantly. Perhaps she thought they were going to announce an engagement and not being knocked up. Glancing over at Sammy, he watched the kid stare at the tablecloth as he grabbed his glass. He dared looked at the Porter's who seemed to be trying to compose themselves. So they were old fashion - Carmen had warned them that their reaction might be less than favorable.

"When's the wedding, Sweetie?" Mrs. Porter asked.

"This isn't the fifties, Mom. Just because we're pregnant doesn't mean we have to get hitched before we're ready!" she protested as her grip on his hand tightened. "Lots of people are doing it."

"Like who?"

Carmen paused, her mouth half opened as she wracked her brain for an answer. Looking over at Dean for help, he merely shrugged his shoulders and gave her a look as if to say _I have amnesia, remember_?

"Like… Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie!"

Dean was positive she wanted to add an 'ah-huh!' to the end of her sentence but refrained from doing so. Sammy sank farther into his chair as the Porters looked at the couple in disbelief. Maybe they weren't big on celebrities and didn't think their daughter should live such a lifestyle.

"Oh well, if billionaires are doing it…" scoffed Mrs. Porter.

"Look," Dean interrupted suddenly becoming irritated at the direction the conversation was heading, "we never said we wouldn't get married. Right now we're just enjoying being Dean and Carmen."

Carmen looked at him like she wanted to have him there and then on the table in front of the whole restaurant. There was a know-it-all grin plastered across her face as she stared pointedly at her parents. Mrs. Porter looked sourly at the two while Mr. Porter smiled knowingly.

"So, Dean, you like football?" inquired Mr. Porter.

Not really caring if Mrs. Porter liked him or not, he was glad that he at least got on one parent's good side. The rest of the dinner went on without a hitch. Though, granted, Carmen's mother was less than thrilled about the situation her daughter found herself in. Dean, on the other hand, couldn't get the stupid smirk off his face.

That night, after the Porters were situated in the guest bedroom and Sammy on the couch, Dean rolled out of bed next to Carmen. Somehow, he knew that his brother was a light sleeper so he would have to be extra careful not to wake the kid up. He carefully maneuvered his way down the stairs noiselessly and out the front door without a sound. Once outside, he dug the keys out of his pocket as he climbed into the '67 Chevy Impala to summon the demon that took his memory.

Dean stood up, looking down at the small summoning scene he'd set up on the side of an old dirt road. Taking out a knife, he drew the blade along his palm and let the blood drip into the bowl situated in the center. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as the thought that this could be a total waste of time flooded into his brain. He just hoped that this didn't go to hell in a hand basket. His mind wandered briefly to Sammy and Bobby who told him not to even attempt summoning the demon without them. He couldn't summon it with them though if this was going to work.

"You conjuring me, Dean? I'm surprised… and a little flattered."

Whipping around, his gaze locked on the pretty brunette who came to him on the side of the highway just days before. He watched her eyes cloud over black as she sauntered towards him. She seemed slightly surprised but intrigued at the same time. It was now or never.

"You swiped my memory," he said flatly.

"I told you I did. Weren't you paying attention?"

He swallowed hard as he stared at the woman - _demon_ - in front of him. There was a smirk plastered across her pale face, an eyebrow cocked up knowingly. Rubbing his chin with his hand, he walking pass her as doubts invaded his mind. What if he couldn't pull this off?

"You could do it again, couldn't you?" his voice was soft. "Take Carmen and me and just… put us somewhere that Sammy can't find us?"

Turning around to look at her, the demon had an unreadable expression on her face as her eyes moved up and down Dean's body. The smirk on her face grew as a low chuckle escaped through her lips.

"If you can't take the heat, than you got to get out of the kitchen - is that right, Dean?"

"I can't live like this. I can't live knowing I'm going to die, with this death date looming over my head. I'd rather be in the dark and happy."

"You'd willingly leave Sammy in the dust?"

"I don't even remember him," he replied.

Stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets, he walked away from the demon who followed idly. His heart raced wildly in his chest. What if this plan didn't work? What if he was sent down to the pit ahead of schedule? He stopped short of a wooden structure, laying a hand on a wooden pole.

"I can take your memory back to the point before you saw Sammy. You would still remember Carmen and the baby… but Sammy would be a huge black void. I can pick and chose memories, Dean, just tell me which ones you want out of that pretty little head of yours."

He didn't reply. Instead, he pushed himself up straighter and strolled under the wooden structure with his eyes glued on the ground. Footfalls followed him as Dean turned around to see the demon was standing underneath the wooden structure with him. A shit-eating grin crossed his face as he stepped out from under the structure.

"You know what? I want my memory back, completely," he commented.

"What a 180, Dean," she said as she followed him. "You can't just lead a girl up the gar-"

She stopped, her head snapping up. Dean followed her gaze, the grin on his face breaking out fully as he stared up at the Devil's Trap. Sammy and Bobby may not have agreed with his plan of trapping the bitch and forcing her to give his memories back, but that didn't mean they were going to let him go into a situation blind either. Bobby painted the trap on the wooden structure while he and Sammy were out to dinner with Carmen's family.

"_Dean_," she snarled, "this isn't how you treat someone who holds your fate in their hands."

"Had you going, didn't I?" he joked. "Let's strike a little deal, shall we?"

"Let. Me. Out. Now."

"Let me think about that. No. Although, you can give me my memory back, and then I'll let you go because I'm such a saint."

"Even if I wanted to, I can't."

"You can't or you don't know if you want to? There's a huge difference."

Reaching into the pocket inside of his leather jacket, he pulled out a journal that Sam said belonged to their father. He flipped through the pages until he came across the exorcism ritual. Quickly, he showed the entry to the demon to let her know what was going to happen unless she started talking fast. When she didn't say anything, Dean started to read the Latin on the page. She twitched, her jaw tightening with her eyes glued on the hunter.

"STOP!"

He stopped reading and considered her for several seconds. She was breathing heavily, her eyes dark and glaring at him. Straightening up, she cracked her neck to buy some time.

"I could get into a lot of trouble for this," she started, "especially since you went all Faustian and complicated everything. What's dead should really stay dead, Dean.""I'm not much for rules."

"So I've noticed," she snapped. "You should just count your blessings that I relate to rebels without a cause such as yourself."

"So how do we do this? You know, since I can't quite remember since you took it upon yourself to make my life a living hell."

"Oh, a living hell, Dean? You don't even know the first thing about hell. If you think your little love for Carmen and having a baby on the way is hell, that just because you can't remember Sammy or who you were is hell, that just because good ole Daddy is dead is hell… just wait until you experience the real thing." She scoffed with a shake of the head. "You think some pathetic Bible version is what hell is really like? Think again, Dean. It's a place where you experience your worst nightmares over and over again. You can't even remember your own name let alone anyone you care about. Then, you hear screams in your head… and sometimes you don't realize that you're the one screaming until your throat feels about ready to crack open. So don't talk to me about living in hell."

"Well, that was entertaining," he said quietly and hoped that his voice didn't quiver. "We have a deal or not?"

"You got to get closer. I need to touch you for this to work." She held her hands out to him. "As soon as it's done, you better let me out before my boss comes to rip me limb from limb."

He stepped forward into the protective circle with the journal clenched tightly in his hand. Her hands situated themselves on either side of his forehead. There was pressure building up in his head. A hot surge tore into the sides of his face as he bit down on his lower lip. He could feel her breath dancing on his face, but he couldn't see her. All he could see was pitch-black darkness, and he swore that his eyes were open. A soft bit of flesh touched his lips and it only vaguely registered in his mind that she was kissing him.

That's when the flashes started. He saw fire and a man he knew was his father handing him Sammy. He remembered meeting Pastor Jim, Bobby, Caleb, Joshua. He saw himself taking care of Sammy - the two of them growing up. Flashes of hunts he went on with his father, hunts with Sam, filled his mind. He remembered every detail, every single thing that he longed to remember for so long. He saw Carmen - not real life Carmen who was pregnant - but Carmen in his twisted Djinn reality where his mom and Jessica were alive, where the Winchesters were happy and not demon hunters.

Their lips broke apart, and Dean stumbled to the ground. Panting heavily, he blinked beads of sweat out of his eyes. He looked up at the demon to only see a blurry outline. Rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes, he saw the demon staring down at him with his arms crossed over her chest waiting to be let out of the Devil's Trap. His mind was fuzzy and he couldn't quite comprehend what to do. The sudden surge of memories floated wildly around in his mind, and he was suddenly faced with the burning question: what was he supposed to do?

"We had a deal, Dean," the demon broke him out of his trance.

Pushing himself off the ground, his legs wobbled shakily as he staggered to the edge of the trap. Reaching up, he pulled a plank of wood off as déjà vu filled his mind. It wasn't the bad sort of déjà vu that drove him crazy for the past month - it was the good kind since he could _remember_ the situation before perfectly. The demon stepped out and instantly black smoke escaped through the woman's mouth. Dean watched as the girl struggled with her surroundings post possession and couldn't help but feel just as useless and confused as she was.

* * *

Foreshadowing alert, foreshadowing alert! I really had a lot of fun writing this chapter, I must say. It's been a couple chapters since I've had a lot of fun writing to this story for some odd reason. I'm back into my foreshadowing kick as well as my drawing parallels to the show kick. Did you catch the hint? Did you catch the oh so many parallels? Do leave a review and tell me what you think. Feedback is a godsend. 


	10. Carpe Diem

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Ten: Carpe Diem"**

Shoving the key into the lock, Dean pushed the front door opened slowly. He peered into the living room to see his little brother sprawled out on the couch - his legs hanging off the armrest and onto the end table. Sometimes, Dean wondered how the kid got to be so freakin' gigantic. With his memory fully intact, it seemed like just yesterday when Sammy barely reached his hip, when he had to stand on his tiptoes to hug his big brother. He didn't exactly remember, however, when the kid sprouted like a bean. All he knew was one day him and Dad left him with Joshua Harper to go on a hunt and when they got back the kid was taller than both of them. Closing the door behind him, Dean walked towards the couch quietly.

"Hey, Sam, wake up!"

"Sam?"

The kid stirred on the couch, his sleepy-glazed eyes fluttering open. He stared up at his brother, no idea that Dean was Dean again. One look at Sammy, and Dean sighed in relief. The look on the kid's face was readable - knew exactly what was going through his mind. Sam got so used being called Sammy since coming to Lawrence that hearing himself being called his usual name was just plain awkward.

"Yeah, Princess, I called you Sam. That's your name." A beat passed before he added, "Bitch."

"Jer-" A smile crossed the kid's face before suddenly falling as quickly as it came. "Wait… do you have your memory back?"

That woke him up completely. He bolted up on the couch, his foot only barely missing the lamp. A low chuckle caught in Dean's throat, a smile crossing his features. It felt so good to remember Sam for who he was, to remember everything about him. Part of him, on the other hand, missed his amnesia self. Believe it or not, it was easier to start fresh with a new outlook on life than to have the weight of the world situated on his shoulders.

"No, I'm just up at two in the morning wearing my boots for no reason."

"You went alone? I told you not to go alone!"

A groan escaped his lips before he could stop himself. Sammy and his damn over protectiveness - as though Dean couldn't take care of some measly little memory-swiping demon. He'd faced _the_ demon and come out alive, but some half-assed demon was different in Sam's eyes for some insane reason.

"Dude, I'm twenty-eight. I can take care of a demon by myself."

"Yeah, Dean, normal you but not amnesia you."

Dean thought back to his hunting skills with amnesia intact. They weren't _that_ bad. Sure, he'd gotten scuffed up a bit and generally found himself on the ground, but that wasn't any indication that he didn't have the instincts of a hunter.

He tried not to think about the amnesia and how his life got screwed up yet again. The whole thing confused him, made his head start to pound. He could remember the hunt in Kentucky, the fight with Sam, meeting the demon in some shithole bar after the case. He couldn't, however, connect A to C. He didn't understand how a little more than a month changed his life so drastically.

"I still have ten fingers and toes and the family jewels. I guess I can hunt on my own after all," he bit back with a full force of sarcasm as he tried to keep his confusion at bay. "Hey, listen, Sam, it's her. _Her_."

"Who?"

"Carmen."

"Carmen's a demon?"

More than anything, Dean wanted to reach out and hit the kid across the head but refrained himself. Sam's eyes were wide, his mouth opened, as he contemplated Carmen being a freakin' demon.

"No, Asshat, Carmen's… the girl."

"Dean, you're not making a whole lot of sense right now."

"The girl from that funky Djinn universe. _The_ girl."

"Why would the demons put you here with her?" he questioned as a look of clarity mixed with relief crossed his features.

The whole car ride home, he pondered that same question. Why the hell would this new demon leader, yellow-eyed freak want to allow him to be happy with the girl of his dreams? What would be the point of separating him from Sam? If they really wanted the kid, they could easily take him right under Dean's nose. They'd done it before. Taken him, killed a whole diner full of people just to make Sam play a game of life and death with some other crazy kids with freaky powers.

"I don't know," he whispered.

His gaze traveled from his brother to the stairs that led upstairs. Carmen was up there sleeping without any knowledge that he wasn't the same Dean she'd gotten to know and love. He knew he couldn't keep up the charade of his new life, the life he so desperately wanted since he could remember. There was a job to do. His happiness for the lives of others? His happiness for what could possibly be Sam's demise? No contest.

Perhaps, if it was just leaving Carmen it would be easier. He could convince his mind that she was just another girl in another town. He'd gotten over Cassie. He could get over Carmen. The fact of the matter was that he had a child on the way. A little boy or girl who needed a father. He knew he wouldn't be able to take his child to school, help with the homework, teach how to drive, give the facts of life lesson when it come to sex, watch graduation, watch a marriage ceremony, meet his grandkids. He would only have a few days with the kid at most before he had to kick the bucket down to hell.

"Dean?"

Snapping his eyes to his little brother, Dean didn't even notice when the tears started to pour down his face. He ran a hand down his face, wiping away any evidence that he'd shown such weakness. The funny thing was, before amnesia he didn't really care about dying. He'd saved Sammy and that's all that mattered. His life would mean something. When he heard about the deal during his amnesia, he sort of hoped it was some sick joke and he was having false memories about the deal. Now, the reality of the situation was crashing into him - suffocating him with grief. A _child_. A stupid, freakin' child was making him break down. He didn't even like kids to begin with.

"So, um, I was thinking on the ride back here that maybe we could… have Lawrence be our headquarters. You know, when we were little Pastor Jim was always our headquarters."

"Dean, if you want to stay, we can stay."

"These demons are after you, Sammy, we gotta kill them before they get to you."

"How? Dean, we don't have bullets for the Colt."

"Then we'll figure out a way! I don't know!"

He was certain that his yelling woke up the rest of the house, but he could really care less. There was a huge chunk of him that just wished he'd die already so that he wouldn't have to deal with everything. He wanted the guilt, the sadness, everything to just disappear. He didn't want to think about how he was leaving Sammy, Carmen, and his unborn child. He didn't even want to consider how he was happy, truly happy since his mother died in the fire.

"You said it yourself once. You're sick of the job. We don't get paid or thanked. We can just finish up two more things and be done with the whole thing."

"What two jobs are those, Sam?"

"First, we get you out of the deal with the demon. Then, we prove to these demons we're not a force to be reckoned with."

"No."

"No?"

"The demon said you drop dead if I try to weasel my way out of my deal," he replied. "I'd rather die than you. You know, that big brother hero complex and all."

That's when the look came - the pathetic puppy-dog eyes that used to make their dad and Dean buckle to Sam's will. There was the rare occasion that the look still worked, still made him feel guilty as hell. It was the times when Sam didn't even mean to plaster the look on his face that got Dean just like this moment.

"I'll get you out of it. You'll have nothing to do with it."

"I really don't think that matters."

The stairs creaked causing Dean to turn around to see Carmen descending while hastily tying her robe around her waist. He couldn't look at her without thinking it was all a dream - that he was tied up in some warehouse having the life drained out of him. After he retrieved his memory, on the car ride back, there was a fleeting moment where he thought that perhaps he was still in his Djinn hell. It took all of his self-control not to jerk the Impala into on coming traffic just to wake up.

"Dean? What's going on?"

Her voice was soft, delicate as it wafted into his ears. He could picture himself sitting at the restaurant just like earlier that evening but with his mom and Jessica sitting across from him and not her parents. The whole situation confused him, made his head feel like it was going to explode. He hated being so unsure of himself, hated not being in control. His two different lives blurred together, and he couldn't pick them apart.

"I'm fine," he said quickly.

He couldn't picture them like they were in this lifetime. He could only picture them in his fake universe. Images of them on the couch, at dinner with his mom, everything that wasn't true floated through his mind. He could barely remember how they were in reality, because his mind was that screwed up.

"Dean…" Sam trailed off.

"We need to talk." Dean ignored his brother as he grabbed Carmen by the elbow.

She had to know that she was his soul mate. She had to know he was going to die. She had to know everything. The couple left the living room and headed towards the kitchen. Dean shot his little brother a look to tell him not to interrupt or else. Waving his arm, he motioned for her to take a seat in one of the mismatched chairs.

"I'm Dean Winchester."

"I know…"

"No, you don't. I'm Dean Winchester, and I'm wanted for the FBI for a dozen and a half crimes. Some of them I did commit like credit card theft, grave desecration, impersonating government and law enforcement personal."

"You're not making any sense."

Pausing, he looked down at Carmen. She was looking up at him with wide eyes, tears brimming in the corners. Hands clenched the armrests - knuckles as white as a piece of paper. A lump formed in his throat, one that wouldn't go down even after he swallowed. She was _the_ girl, and he couldn't just lie to her for the rest of his life. He had to be honest and if she ran…

"I have my memory back," he whispered. "I remember everything."

"And you're a… a _felon_?"

"All in the name of ghostbusting, supernatural hunter extraordinaire." Sitting down in the chair next to her, he grabbed her shaking hand into his. "Carmen, I can't lie to you."

"Okay."

"You remember in the hospital, after I was first admitted, how I thought I knew you?" She nodded slowly. "I did know you. You were… my dream girl. The perfect girl for me."

"Dean, we've never met before that day in the hospital."

He felt himself nod and thought back to the time he told Cassie the truth about him. As clear as day, he could hear her screaming at him. She even threw something at his head. The last thing he wanted was for Carmen to react the same way. He couldn't lose her yet.

"Sam and I hunted a Djinn once."

"A… what?"

"Djinn - a genie. Genies don't grant wishes, they just make you think they have. They feed off you while you're having this dream that most people think is the real deal, like their wildest wishes actually came true. I wished for my mom to be alive. In this fake wish dream, you and me were together. We were happy."

"Dean, ghosts are one thing, but genies and demons are just a complete other thing."

"So you believe in ghosts but nothing else?"

He could see her struggling with herself as she tried to formulate an answer. Dean leaned back in the bright yellow chair, rubbing a hand over his face. Telling Carmen was harder than it ever was telling Cassie. Carmen was… Carmen. She was vastly different and so perfect in every way. Dean couldn't even recall what he saw in Cassie in the first place while sitting with Carmen in her mismatched kitchen.

"When I was seven, I saw a ghost," she started as her hand slipped from underneath his. "My parents, my brother, and I were cleaning out his house to get it ready for sale. I walked into the den and saw him there. He waved with this huge smile on his face. He always smiled like that… would slip his thumbs under his suspenders and just laugh. My brother used to joke that if there was a Santa Claus, our grandfather would be him."

"Carmen…?"

"I ran out of the den screaming for my dad. I thought he'd be so happy, you know. I dragged him into the den, and my granddad wasn't there. My dad just kinda smiled sadly at me before leaving." She paused for a few seconds, a soft smile gracing her features. "At the showing for the funeral, I was the only one not sad. I thought that I was the only one in on some sort of joke, you know? I thought my granddad would just sit up in that casket and everyone would laugh in relief. When his coffin was being lowered into the ground, that's the first time I cried for him. That's when I realized it wasn't a joke, and I actually understood what death meant. So, yeah, I believe in ghosts. Ever since that experience, Dean, I've tried to keep an open mind. This though - this hunting stuff is just a lot to take in."

"I was six when I saw my first spirit," Dean started. "My dad had to go to a cemetery to do a little salt and burn. My job was to make sure Sammy didn't wander off while my dad dug the grave. The ghost haunted the cemetery and killed kids who would go in to do séances and crap. So, my dad's digging a grave, and I'm holding a squirming two-year-old in my arms whose telling me he's bored and wants to leave. Then, out of nowhere, the spook attacks my dad. It was the first time that I really saw something supernatural."

"This is nice."

"What is?"

"Talking openly about our pasts. I never told you stories about when I was younger, because you couldn't remember. I didn't want to feel like a bitch or anything."

He smiled thinking how he could never share any of those experiences with anyone before. He'd shared some things before with other hunters like Jim Murphy, Bobby Singer, Joshua Harper, and even Gordon Walker. Never before had he sat down with someone like Carmen before and tell tales of his hunting adventures.

"Dean…"

"Carmen…"

"Have you ever seen an angel?"

Stopping dead in his tracks, he glanced up at Carmen as though he never saw anything like her. His mother's voice filled his head, her soft words of angels and protection clouding his mind. For the longest time, he denied the existence of angels. He never talked of them, never allowed Sam to watch any movies or television shows revolving around angels. He didn't want him let in on the lie as well.

"No."

"I had a… younger sister who died when I was sixteen. She was eight," she spoke softly. "While she was in the hospital, she talked about angels a lot and how they were with her. The last thing she told me was that she had to die, that it was her destiny… that she was meant to become an angel and watch over the family. I've always wondered if that was true - wondered if she became an angel."

"I'm not one for divine intervention and angels," he said steadily. "Sam, on the other hand, is a huge sucker for that."

"You believe in all the bad stuff but none of the good stuff?"

"I've only seen bad."

"Let's go to bed. I'm exhausted."

She stood up, holding out a hand for him to take. Grabbing it, he thought of his mother and her great tales of angels. Part of him wished they didn't exist, because they couldn't or didn't want to save his mom. Another part, a small part, wanted them to exist so that he could feel close to his mom again.

Entering the living room, Dean saw Sam sitting up on the couch waiting for them to return. The kid glanced at him, his eyes wide and ready to talk some more. With one look in their secret language - a language he'd missed so much in the past several days - he told Sammy to go to bed and worry about it in the morning.

As he laid in bed with Carmen's head on his chest, he tried to push the confusion out of his mind. He wanted peace, that was all. He didn't want to worry about his death date, Sammy, Carmen, the baby, hunting. He just wanted to live in the moment for once and not worry.

He shot up in bed, his heart pounded wildly for some reason. Glancing to his left, he watched the steady rise and fall of Carmen's chest. He blinked trying to clear his mind and keep his heart rate in check.

"Dean…"

The voice wafted through the room, the tone dancing in his eardrums. It couldn't be. Turning towards the right, he saw his mother standing beside his bedside with a grin lighting up her features. She was dressed in the white nightgown she died in, a nightgown he remembered from so long ago.

"Mom?" He felt himself stop breathing. "This is a dream."

"Listen to me, Dean, a far worse man than yourself gave up his soul and redeemed it. You have to believe."

"Believe in what? Mom?"

"Your dad and I are watching out for you two, but we can't interfere. Dean, get out of the deal."

"I want to, Mom, but-"

"You can. You will. Sammy needs you. Your son needs you."

Her hand reached out and touched his cheek. He leaned into it, feeling her icy cold hands against his skin. How he missed her touch, her hugs, her burnt chocolate chip cookies she said were made with undeniable love. He missed her voice, her laugh, her smell. He missed the way she danced with his dad, the way she danced with him, the way she swayed with Sammy.

The touch left his cheek, and he studied his mother's face. Taking something off her neck, she slipped it around his. Looking down, he noticed it was some sort of necklace with a symbol on it - a symbol he remembered seeing but couldn't place it.

"Just believe."

His eyes opened, something wet sliding down his cheeks. Quickly, he wiped away the salty tears and glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven in the morning. He turned his gaze onto Carmen whose lower body was alit in sunlit through the blinds on the window. Reaching up, he touched his cheek where his mother's hand was before. Her cool touch was still there.

His hand went down to the protection amulet around his neck. It was still there but something else occupied it. There was another necklace around his neck - a single silver chain with a symbol hanging from it. The symbol that looked so familiar.

* * *

**Important Notice One**: Some of you may have realized, but this story had started to be plagiarized. So I ask all of you to look out for plagiarized stories and put a stop to this. I never realized that this actually happened - stupid, silly me - but I'm now going to be vigilant about the stories I read. So look you for yourselves, for me, and for all the other writers out there.

**Important Notice Two**: I'm on the fence about doing a prequel to this story to show what happened in the Kentucky hunt. I was going to smooth over it in this story; but the more I thought about it, the more detailed the story became in my head. So I can either leave out what happened in the hunt completely, or I can write a prequel. It's totally up to you. I'll be taking tally from this website and the others that I post this story up on. So vote if you want it.

Author's Notes: My generic author notes that seem really off place in light of two important notices. There was a lot of dialogue in this chapter. Was it too much? There's only one or two chapters left (depending on if I can fit it all in one chapter or not) plus an epilogue. I'm on the fence about the epilogue. You'll either love it or hate it. Drop a review since they are what authors live and breathe.


	11. Give the Devil His Due

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Eleven: Give the Devil His Due"**

While the sun peeked into the bedroom through the blinds, Dean felt the bed shift and heard the mattress creak as Carmen got up. He stayed perfectly still, listening as the woman made her way around the room grabbing day clothes. Closing his eyes tightly, the faint outline of his mother burned in his retina. The dream felt real, had to have been real if he now had a silver chain looped around his neck. Warm lips touched his temple, but he continued to play possum.

As soon as the bedroom door shut softly, Dean sat up in bed to bury his face in his hands. Mary Winchester's soft tone full of love pulsated in his ears as her shimmering blonde hair danced in the darkness. Her words vibrated in his head, pounding wildly against a black void. They should have meant something more to him.

_"A far worse man than yourself gave up his soul and redeemed it. You have to believe."_

Believe in what? There was nothing left for him to believe in. His mother and father both died at the hands of the yellow-eyed demon. His brother, inadvertently, died at the hands of the same demon. He, himself, was faced with a life in hell because of said demon. Was he to believe in angels? The same angels whom didn't protect his family that one fateful night? The angels that betrayed his mother's unfathomable faith for cheap thrills? Was he to believe in God? A God that his father adamantly condemned more times than Dean cared to count? A God that hadn't protected their mother - a poster child for religion?

His hand found its way to the silver chain around his neck, his fingers brushing up against the symbol dangling from it. He could swear he remembered his mother wearing it when she was alive. The cool silver would tickle his neck as she hovered above him at night giving him goodnight kisses and whispering about hierarchy of angels. He could hear his father's bark-like laughter before stating that Mary was a descendant of angels.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he made his way downstairs with his mind set on talking to Sammy. The kid was a walking encyclopedia of weird. If anyone knew what the symbol was, Sam would know. Descending the stairs, the kid wasn't on the couch. He was always a freak who'd wake up at insane hours of the morning. When he was in grade school, the kid would wake up two hours before class even started. That's when he heard laughter ringing from the kitchen, laughter that belonged to Carmen and Sam.

Upon walking into the kitchen, Dean noted the two sitting across from each other at the table eating Lucky Charms. Carmen's hand covered her mouth and nose as her eyes twinkled up at Dean. Clearing her throat, her eyes shifted quickly back to Sam.

"Morning, Dean," Sam called without looking back.

"We need to talk," was his tense reply.

That caught the kid's attention. He turned around to look at his older brother with concern shining in his eyes. Dean avoided Carmen's eyes, avoided her altogether. Last night, he hadn't told her about his looming death day. Instead, the conversation somehow spun around into supernatural ghost tales about their childhood. Somehow, in his screwed up mind, he couldn't look at her until he told her he was to die and leave her a single mother.

"Sam…"

Jerking his head towards the door, the kid slowly rose out of his seat without taking his eyes off his brother. It was as though Sammy was trying to figure out what Dean would say even before they talked.

They walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs passing Mr. Porter on the way up. When they reached Carmen's bedroom, Dean lightly pushed his brother into the room and stepped in behind him. Turning around, Dean closed and locked the door before facing his brother.

"Was there ever a guy who made a deal but got out of it? Maybe a bad guy who didn't deserve to?"

"Dean…"

"Has there?"

"I don't know. Are you talking real life cases or legends?"

"Legends? There are legends about selling your soul to the devil and surviving."

"There's… the Faustian legend…"

Blinking at his brother, his mind started to spin. He thought back to when he trapped the memory-stealing demon, back to when she made a simple comment that didn't even seem important at the time. _"I could get into a lot of trouble for this, especially since you went all Faustian and complicated everything."_

"What's the Faustian legend?"

"Dean, didn't you pay attention to Pastor Jim at all in Sunday School?"

"Uh, no, I loved the guy like an uncle, but I learned the fine art of tuning him out all things religious. Plus, Dad hated it when Pastor Jim would drag us into church on Sundays."

"Theophilus was unhappy that he didn't get the position of bishop, so he sells his soul to the Devil. His essential goodness and internalizes the forces of Good and the forces of Evil is what saves him. The Virgin Mary gives his contract back, displays it to the congregation, and then dies without having to spend eternity in hell."

"Virgin Mary?"

Dean thought back to his mother's face in his dream. He could remember the days back when his father used to joke with his mother about how she was descendants of a divine family. It couldn't be just a coincidence.

"Thanks."

"Dean, what's going on?"

"You know what this is?"

Reaching up, Dean grabbed the silver chain and pendant to yank it off his neck. He threw it towards his brother who caught it with ease. The kid stared at the engraving, his brows furrowed and forehead creased. Glancing up, his eyes alone questioned what the whole conversation was about.

"It's a… a symbol meaning angels." Sam paused as a fist formed around the symbol. "Where did you get this?"

"I don't know, Sammy," he whispered.

"Is it Carmen's?"

"No."

"Dean!"

Glancing up at his brother, Dean felt his throat close. He had to keep his game face on, couldn't just go spilling out his dream about his mom to his little brother. There would be endless questions about the dream and their mom in general. Did she wear this in real life? What did she say in the dream? How did you get it around your neck? Blah. Blah. Blah.

"I… found it."

"Found it where?" Sam pressed.

"Sam," Dean challenged as his voice evened out, "let it go."

"You're the one who dragged me up here, Dean! You're the one asking me about Faustian legends and angelic symbols!" He paused to sigh. "If you tell me, maybe I can help."

Dean faltered and wondered why he even involved Sam in the first place. The kid wasn't one to just answer a simple question and let it go. No, he had to know everything. He'd start prattling off questions until he was satisfied with the inquiry he was asked in the first place.

"Say… you had this dream, okay? Except it wasn't a dream. It seemed like real life. In this dream or not dream, this person give you this cryptic message on… how to rob a bank. This person tells you that far less capable people have robbed before and succeeded and you had to figure out their secret. So, you think this is just a dream but then you wake up and you find that you have something from the dream. What the hell does it mean?"

"Okay," Sam said slowly, "who were the bank robbers before?"

"I don't know! Bonnie and Clyde."

"The police found Bonnie and Clyde, and they died."

"Fine. Fine. Just… Joey Ramone okay?"

"He was a musician…"

"Sam!"

"Okay, Joey Ramone robs a bank and succeeds. He has a secret that I'm suppose to find out. So, were there hints on what the secret was?"

"No… yes. That Joey robbed a bank and succeeded so you could too - that you _have_ to because there are people who need you to rob the bank."

"Whose idea is it for me to rob the bank? Mine or dream person?"

"Does it matter?"

"Okay, let me get this straight."

"Shoot."

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Sammy to spill back all the information he just gave him. He watched the kid formulate the story in his mind.

"You thought you were dreaming but someone came to you in your dream and said that Faust sold his soul to the devil but survived. This person gives you this angelic symbol so you know you weren't dreaming. This person tells you that you need to go in the Faustian direction because there are people who need you to get out of the deal. Right?"

"You're robbing a bank, Sam! This is about a bank robbery!"

"Fine, Dean, okay? Joey Ramone robbing the bank is - is just a legend… an old bible story."

"But in real life, while you were awake, you ran into someone who actually used the term Ramonian."

"Who?"

"A demon."

"So I meet a demon who tells me I'm acting all… _Ramonian_ in robbing the bank and then have a dream about a person telling me that Ramone robbed a bank?"

"This isn't brain surgery, Sam!"

"Maybe if we weren't using code words for everything, I would get the point you're trying to make!" the kid snapped back.

Running a hand down his face, Dean tried to push back the frustration that was filling him. There was, after all, a fine line that the brothers drew between them. There were mounds of things that Sam didn't know about Dean and vise versa. This was one of the things that Dean didn't want Sam knowing anything about.

"I gotta go."

"Dean!"

"Look after Carmen for me."

Before Sam could protest, before he could do anything at all, Dean was out of the bedroom and walking steadily towards the Impala to go where he vowed he would never go again. Grabbing the car keys off the table by the front door, he quickly left the house. Once in the Impala, the car positioned in reverse, Sam burst through the door as though to stop him. Dean slammed his foot on the gas and backed out of the driveway.

The drive to Tulsa, Oklahoma was a long, uncomfortable one. Without Sam riding shotgun, the trip seemed never ending. As he pulled into town, he felt déjà vu overwhelming him. Turning into the cemetery, Dean remembered back a year when Sammy dragged him to this very cemetery as he buried their father's dog tags in the hard earth. Parking the car, he looked at the endless headstones but only saw one.

Slowly, he got out of the car and walked slowly towards the headstone he was looking for. On his way, a grave marker caught his eye. To the right of Mary Winchester's headstone was another one with an engraving reading:

_Jonathan Winchester_

_1954-2006_

_Devoted and loving father_

_of Dean and Sammy_

A lump formed in Dean's throat as he stared at his father's bodiless grave. At that moment, he really didn't care who put the marker up but was oddly thankful that someone had put it next to his mother's bodiless grave. He vaguely thought that perhaps it was Sam's doing, but the kid hadn't been out of his sight long enough during their last visit to Tulsa to set the affair in order.

On the left of Mary's grave was another headstone that caught his eye, a familiar last name glaring up at him. That grave read:

_Richard and Molly Seraph_

_1924-1954_

_1927-1954_

_Loving parents of Benjamin and Mary_

He could remember like it were yesterday, his mother whispering how he was the son of a rifle maker and an angel. How many times had his mother talked of the Seraph family who was watched after by angels? She told great tales of her ancestors being descended from angels, that he was lucky to have a Seraph for a mother.

Glancing towards the marker next to the grandparents he never knew, he saw one last marker of, perhaps, a great uncle he never knew - the uncle who put up the grave markers despite the fact that Mary and John's bodies burned to a crisp. The last marker read:

_Douglas Hale_

_1925-1999_

_A hunter who loved his _

_nephew Ben and niece Mary_

_beyond all else _

The words struck him as he stared at the last headstone, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. _Hunter_. That's when it hit him, ramming into him like a ton of bricks. He looked at the date his grandparents died - 1954. His mother was born the same year. Suddenly, the wave hit him. What if…?

_"Mom interrupted him. Mom… she knew the demon. Then she was murdered."_

Sammy's words plowed into him as he stared at his mother's grave marker. He was breathing heavily as he tried to process what exactly was going on. There were so many thoughts swimming around in his mind - so many thoughts that were suffocating him. Then he felt something, something warm and soft on his cheek. Dean leaned into it, his eyes closing.

"I'm so glad you came," a familiar female voice wafted into his head. "I needed you to realize the truth before…"

"Mom?"

His eyes snapped open as he turned his right to see his mother standing next to him with a hand still touching his cheek. Behind his mother was John Winchester who was smiling sadly at his son.

"Dad?"

"I can help you, Dean," Mary whispered. "Pray."

"What?"

"Pray now, Dean," his father said. "That's an order."

Suddenly, his mother's hand slapped onto his forehead. He felt pain shooting through his head as he fell towards the ground and everything became a thicket of black. The next thing he knew was music playing and something vibrating in his pants. Shaking his head, Dean propped himself up on left elbow as his right hand dug into his pocket to his cell phone.

"'Lo?" his voice cracked slightly as he spoke into the phone.

_"Dean! Where the hell are you?"_ Carmen's voice rang in his ear. _"Sam and I are worried sick about you."_

"Uh… Tulsa, Oklahoma."

_"He's in Tulsa. What are you doing in Tulsa?"_

"Saving my life."

He clicked the phone off as guilt poured into him. He couldn't weasel his way out of the deal or else Sammy dropped dead. What the hell was he doing? Glancing towards his mother's grave, his chest tightened.

"I can't, Mom, Dad," he whispered. "I gotta die or else Sammy… better me than him, you know? I don't wanna die, but I have to. There's no salvation for me. My whole life it's just been Sammy. Protect Sammy. Save Sammy. Watch out for Sammy. He's…m'brother, m'best friend. I can't live without him."

Standing up, Dean swayed slightly as he walked towards the Impala. Hauling his frame into the car, his hands gripped the steering wheel as he stared off at all the graves. Death was expected since no one could live forever. Hell, he didn't want to live forever, but he never thought he would die so soon especially when he had a child on the way who needed him.

His eyes shifted back to the graves of family both known and unknown. He wasn't much for prayer, had only prayed once since he was four. He could remember sitting in a hospital chapel at eighteen praying that his father come out of surgery alive and be all right. Even though his father arranged for his oldest to gain soul custody of his then thirteen-year-old brother, Dean had never been so scared in his life. The very possibility of their father dead and caring for a teenager was all too much to handle. Sure, he'd basically raised Sammy but the thought that their father's strong presence being gone completely drove Dean to pray to God or whatever to save their family where he failed before by allowing their mother to die.

The very prospect of praying now seemed absurd. Except both his mother's and father's voices were pounding in his mind telling him to do something he rarely ever did. His grip tightened on the wheel as his knuckles slowly started to turn white. It was now or never.

"I really don't know what I'm supposed to do," he whispered in the car as he closed his eyes. "I can't have Sammy go and dyin' on me. He's the most important person in my whole life. For so long, all I could remember is Dad, Sammy, and me hunting things and saving people. We've done so much, given so much and all we get in return is death and bad luck. Do we really deserve dark clouds following us wherever we go? Are we really that horrible? We've fought the good fight for so long, given everything we ever had. All you've given in return is death and destruction. Is Sammy not supposed to get married and have kids? Are our parents really not supposed to grow old together and watch their grandkids? Am I not supposed to watch my son live his life?"

The pressure on his chest started to lift and the knot in his stomach untangling. His breathing evened out as he opened his eyes to stare dully in front of him. The gravestones and trees blurred together.

"I've only ever asked one thing of you. I asked you to allow our dad to live almost ten years ago. I promise… you let Sammy 'n me live, I will hunt down every evil thing I can. I will make sure all of those demons that were let out of hell are either sent back or are killed. Let me protect m'family. It's me or no one."

* * *

**Important Note: **I have added a summary and some things to expect from the prequel in my livejournal - yes there is going to be a prequel. It's called "One Fell Swoop" My livejournal name is Seriously-Sam (the preview is the fifth post down). There is also a summary for a story I'm working on currently (hopefully start posting next week) about the hunt listed about where Dean prayed. 

Author's Notes: So, I've decided to add this piece to "The Dark Horse" series for the simple fact that I added the DH background into this story. Plus, I came up with a nice idea to now only have John be _the_ Dark Horse but to have Sam and Dean to rise into prominence as well through the demon war. So leave a review and tell me what to think.

There is only one chapter left - actually it's the epilogue. So look forward to that.


	12. Grazed Knees

**"Grazed Knees"**

**"Chapter Twelve: Grazed Knees"**

**Six years and several months later…**

Metallica blared through the speakers as Dean's hands tapped to the rhythm and mouth moved to the words. Sammy sat shotgun and stared idly out the window at the passing scenery. Pulling off their exit, Dean glanced at the clock. They were on time which was something that didn't happen very often. Reaching over the music was lowered to a soft hum. The kid's face immediately turned into relief.

"Thank God," he spoke. "Three hours straight of nonstop, blaring Metallica was giving me a splitting headache."

"Come on, Sam, we just had the perfect hunt! I haven't had a hunt go that smoothly since Dad and I…" He cleared his throat and glanced over at his brother. "At least we made it back in time."

There was one thing - even after all the years - that Dean still had a hard time talking about. John Winchester was a hard subject that was rarely brought up, and Dean believed he would never be able to openly talk about his dad without being suffocated by grief and guilt. Next to Sammy, John meant the world to Dean for the longest time. For twenty-seven years of his life, his brother and father were all he knew and all he cared about.

The car went silent as Dean drove through the residential area. Pulling the Impala up to the edge of the road, the engine was cut. Both brothers glanced right to see a brick elementary school.

"You know what today is?" Sam questioned as he leaned back into the leather seat.

"Uh… a week before school lets out?"

"This is the anniversary of your death date that you somehow managed to get out of without telling me."

Dean groaned, his gaze leaving the school to look at his little brother. The kid had a way about him - a way of pushing and shoving a subject until he got the answer. He couldn't just be happy that Dean was alive and well. No, he had to unravel exactly how Dean got himself out of the deal.

"Kinda creepy for you to remember that."

"Come on, Dean, just tell me. We've been having this argument since-"

"Forever."

"No! Not forever. I just… why won't you tell me, Man?"

"There are some things, Sammy, that I don't want to go spilling out to you. There are some things that I like to keep private."

"The things that should be kept private - like your sex life - should be private, but you feel the need to go in depth about it. Things that you should tell me should be told."

"I'm helping you out, Sammy. You're like my apprentice."

"I'm not your friggin' sex apprentice, Dean!"

Before Dean could reply, a loud bell rang from the school and kids started pouring out the doors to buses and cars. That's when Dean saw him, the small boy who had his green eyes, Sam's dimply smile, and Carmen's pitch black hair. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he could love someone as much as the little boy jogging towards the Impala with a grin plastered across his face. He stopped short of the classic car as he stood outside the passenger's door.

"Password," the small child piped.

"Get in the freakin' car," Dean replied with a smirk.

"I'm not 'posed to get in the freakin' cars with monsters who don't know the password."

The small boy had a shit-eating grin dancing on his features that would make John Winchester proud as hell. The boy knew it really was his father and uncle in the car. Even though he was enjoying giving the older Winchesters a hard time, Dean was proud of him.

"Jim Rockford, but that's Mister Rockford to you. Now get in the car you little brat."

"Sure, Shorty."

He opened the back door as Sam laughed. Ever since he found out that though his uncle was taller, he was the younger one - the boy thought it hilarious to call his father 'Shorty'. Turning the key in the ignition, Dean pulled out onto the street. He headed south towards his house - the thought was absolutely ludicrous even after all the years.

"Did you get it?" the boy in the back asked as he snapped the seatbelt into place.

"That fugly sucker isn't going to hurt anyone else," replied Dean as he glanced in the rearview mirror at his son - _his_ son.

"Good."

"How's school?" Sammy questioned as he twisted his body to look at his nephew.

"Borin'. I wish I could go with you and Daddy. I wanna be a hunter."

"Why don't you worry about passing first grade before you make any life altering decisions? Okay?"

Dean looked into the rearview mirror just in time to see the boy roll his eyes with a slight nod. His son hated school more than anything else. Sammy often blamed him for it - stating that his son picked up on bad habits - especially when the boy worshipped the very ground his father walked on.

"Whatever, Uncle Sammy."

Adjusting himself back into his seat, Sam shot his brother a disapproving look before glancing out the window once more. There were countless amounts of time that Sam took to instill in his nephew that school was important, hunting wasn't all it was cracked up to be, that he should apply himself to things other than sparring and target shooting.

Several minutes later, Dean pulled the Impala into a concrete driveway that led to a house with green siding. Not long after the birth of his first son, Carmen and Dean decided to buy a slightly bigger house so Sammy wouldn't have to spend his nights on the couch. The house was spacious at first but soon became cluttered with all of Carmen's knick-knacks. The garage actually housed both cars for nearly four months before it became cluttered with odds and ends.

"You promised," the boy started, "when you came home you would teach me to ride a bike."

"If you can find it in the mess called a garage, I will."

He threw his backpack aside before leaping out of the car to race to the garage. Dean watched silently as he rose on his tiptoes and started to punch buttons on the number pad before the door started to rise.

"Why don't you go order some food? Your pick. You can even order some of those chick coffees with vanilla and whipped cream."

"You're really never going to tell me how you got out of your deal, are you?"

"Nope."

"Dean…"

"Maybe when I'm dyin' in some hospital room of old age I will. You'll have to wait a good sixty years though."

"You're impossible."

The door squeaked as Sam got out of the passenger's seat and made his way towards the front door of the house. Dean watched as his son walked beside his jet-black bike with training wheels. He got out of the Impala and met his son halfway up the driveway.

"No little wheels."

"Training wheels?"

"Yeah, I don't need 'em."

"Who put them on if you don't want them?"

"Mom," the boy said as his eyes rolled. "She said I needed 'em or else I can't ride."

"You want me to go against your mother?"

"You can take her in a fight."

Dean laughed as he dug into his jacket packet for his Swiss Army Knife. Bending down, he looked at the bolts holding the training wheels in place before glancing up at his son. He was a spoiled, stubborn six year old who somehow always managed to get his way.

"Yeah, you're not the one who has to sleep on the couch for this," Dean muttered as he started to unscrew the bolt.

"You can share my bed," the boy replied with a shrug.

"You know how much I love racecar beds."

"_Red_ racecar beds that you and Uncle Sammy painted black to look like the 'pala."

"Sam - Uncle Sammy always had a way of getting whatever he wanted when he was a kid too. He used to look up at your granddad and me with these big 'ole puppy dog eyes that forced us to give in to whatever he wanted," he explained as he loosened the wheels.

"Uncle Sammy is cool."

"Albeit a little nerdy, yeah he is."

"Nerdy is cool."

"Not as awesome as a dad who can rebuild a car from scratch."

"True. You both are pretty cool. I guess, but Uncle Sammy can rebuild a laptop from scratch."

"A laptop is tiny. An old classic car is massive. You do the math."

"No thanks."

The last wheel fell to the ground as Dean kept a hand on the bike to keep it steady. Glancing up at his son, he couldn't help but see his little brother hopping up and down in excitement at learning how to ride a bike. Clearing his throat, he stood up and motioned for the boy to get on.

"I won't let go - I promise," Dean whispered.

The pedals pushed the bike slowly forward as the boy had a death grip on the handlebars. Dean walked beside him with hands on either side of his son's hands keep the bicycle steady. Turning onto the sidewalk, the bike started to pick up speed as Dean jogged along side the bike with his hands still firmly on the handlebars.

"Let go!"

"What?"

"Let go! I got it!"

"You sure?"

"Dad, let go!"

Reluctantly, Dean's grip loosened as his hands let go. The bike wobbled forward as he jogged to keep up with it just in case it decided to tumble over. The bicycle tilted dangerously to the left as Dean reached forward to grab onto the banana seat. Except, he wasn't fast enough and the boy went crashing down to the cement. A squeak of surprise escaped the boy's lips as his hands skinned against the pavement.

"Johnny!"

Dropping down to the ground, Dean reached out and pulled his son's shaking shoulders to look at him. Instead of tears pouring down his face, Dean watched as his son laughed before burying his face into his father's leather jacket. Glancing down, he realized his son's jeans were ripped at the knees and blood stained the blue fabric.

"Johnny…"

"I thought I could do it," he pouted as he poked his bleeding knee with his finger. "It didn't hurt _that_ bad."

Looping an arm under his son's knees, he pulled the boy as close to his chest as humanly possible. The bike laid on the sidewalk forgotten as Dean walked back towards the Winchester house with his son in his cradled in his arms. Leaning down, he planted a soft kiss on the boy's mess of hair as a sigh of relief escaped his lungs.

He would be there to pick his son up from the ground, to kiss his grazed knees better. He would be there to wrap an arm around his little brother, to help ease the pain. He would be there to plant a kiss on Carmen's forehead, to let her know she was never alone. He would be there, alive, because of one small prayer - of allowing something bigger than himself take control.

* * *

Author's Notes - The end. Sorta sad that it's finished though. I really don't know what to say actually. Be on look out for 'One Fell Swoop' the prequel to this story. I'm taking a couple week hiatus to add onto my other stories that I've stared. Hopefully I'll get one done before starting OFS.

Since this is finished, I ask everyone to leave a little something and tell me whether or not you enjoyed it. This was my first Supernatural chaptered story to complete, so let me know if I executed it well. Thank you all to my constant reviewers and constant readers.


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